Kings of Deceit - R

[Rosabeth]

If Rhys had thought the truth about Tristan would dissuade Venya from her insistence to help, he was sorely mistaken. If anything the news only made her more determined. She’d not so much as shed a tear at the news, only nodding silently as Rhys struggled through broken Antascian to explain the situation. Rhys had watched in awe as she swallowed whatever emotions she suffered in silence, pressed a gentle kiss to her baby’s head, and demanded to help in whatever way she could.

Over the next day she and Rhys poured over a mountain of Antascian tomes, Venya scanning through their may pages with blinding speed and separating the books into several piles that meant nothing to Rhys. They spoke little - Rhys in broken Antascian, Venya in broken Etrenian - resorting mostly to the sheets of spare parchment in the center of the table to communicate. Rhys had not known how to explain the Lanis’ spell, and after several long minutes of pauses and awkward phrases Venya had thrust a sheet of parchment and a pen into Rhys’ hand. “Draw,” she’d said. And so Rhys had, though with very little grace. His image had looked paltry in his own eyes, between it and Rhys’ eventual communication of the word “bloodline,” Venya seemed to understand his meaning. By sundown they’d discarded at least two dozen books as useless to their cause. By the time Rhys left for the temple, Veyna alseep in Tygan's armchair, they were no closer than they’d been at the start of the day.

Under the darkness of midnight the temple loomed silent before Rhys. Worshipers long since gone, only a single flame lit the great hall, the flames casting dancing shadows on the floor. Rhys stepped quietly across the stone floors, each step sounding like a great thud in the silence. Lighting one of the candles perched before the flame, covering it with his hand to ward off the breeze that swept through, Rhys continued deeper into the darkness. Moonlight illuminated the statues of the Gods that lined the great hall, looming twice as high as Rhys on all sides. His eyes flickered from one to another, the statues seeming so much more imposing at night. As his footsteps slowed his gaze stopped on one statue, one marble hand outstretched, gripping a sword that pointed straight for Rhys, with the other hand pressed against its chest. Justice. Rhys remembered coming to the temple as a child, awed by the great works of art that had made him feel so, immeasurably small. Of them all, the Goddess of Justice had been his favorite, something in that strength, the fierceness somehow etched into her marble face, that called to Rhys, even when his faith had long left him.

Slowly, Rhys placed the flickering candle in the long candelabrum that sat before Justice and knelt before the statue. Then, for the first time in many years, Rhys bowed his head, cupped his hands in his lap, and began to pray. For what he prayed, Rhys did not know. Those memorized verses from childhood, learned from books more than practice, tumbled quietly from his mouth while in his head his thoughts wandered. He did not know what the faithful prayed for. He was not so presumptuous, even were he a man of faith, to believe he knew what such gods would want. They were not of this world, not of mortal thoughts and desires - surely they would care little for the plights of mortals who’s lives must look no more than a brief flicker of a flame in their immortal existence. Rhys did not pray for wishes or favors, but as he knelt there Rhys prayed for justice - whatever that would mean. After all, was that not what this god wanted? A part of Rhys shirked at the idea, even as he thought it. Were divine intervention a reality, Rhys was not so sure he - with all his murky history - would not find himself on the receiving end of some god’s wrath.

“I didn’t take you for the religious type. Interesting.”

Rhys’ head whipped around at that voice, startling him from his solitude. He hadn’t heard so much as a footstep in the great, empty hall, hadn’t seen a single shadow move through the moonlight. Even now as he looked into the darkness he saw nothing.

“Glad to see you showed up; wasn’t entirely sure you would, to be honest.”

That voice sounded again from the darkness, but this time Rhys listened to the sound, not just the words. That voice...was not the one who’d spoken in his mind. That genderless, smooth, commanding voice was replaced by one Rhys would have thought was a child’s - high and lilting, with a certain feminine quality. When the shadows behind a nearby pillar shifted and a figure emerged from the darkness, Rhys understood why.

The woman leaned casually against the pillar, a smoking pipe held gingerly in her hand. Even from a distance he could see she stood at an impressive height, equal perhaps to Rhys, though her lanky limbs made her height nearly comical. As she straightened at her notice of Rhys’ watchful eyes, her face shifting into the light, Rhys might have let out a laugh. The girl. Though she’d not spoken, Rhys remembered that child-like face from the night before, soft and delicate. Though she dressed in a man’s loose tunic and trousers, no such masculine apparel could draw attention from a face whose full, freckled, rosy cheeks and large, warm eyes were surrounded by a halo of golden curls. Even with her posturing, she looked like a porcelain doll. A very, very angry doll who was looking as though she might hurl something at Rhys’ head.

“Stop staring,” she hissed, though her frown only looked like a pout on her soft features. Rhys couldn’t help his incredulous stare.

“You’re the one who was speaking to me at that meeting?”

The girl huffed. “And?”

“How old are you?”

A pause. “Twenty.”

Rhys scoffed, prompting another furious glare from the girl. “You don’t honestly think I believe that, do you? If you’re twenty then I must look decrepit to you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re old,” The girl snapped, rolling her eyes as Rhys chuckled before letting out a sigh. “Fine, eighteen.”

Rhys watched the way she looked away, avoiding his eyes. Rhys laughed again, and for a moment truly did expect something to come flying his way. As he stared expectantly the girl let out a great huff, throwing her free hand into the air. “Alright, alright, fine, I turned sixteen last month, are you happy?”

Sixteen. Sixteen Rhys could believe and yet...something about the girl was older, though Rhys could not be certain it was not simply the memories of that voice in his head from the meeting. When he said nothing more the girl stepped from the shadows, her lanky legs bringing her before Rhys in several long strides. When she approached she bent down to Rhys’ level - he had not even realized he was still kneeling - and plucked a thin candle from before the statue and turned the flame to the pipe’s chamber. Rhys wondered if that counted as sacrilege.

As the pipe began to emit a faint glow the girl took it too her lips, inhaling slowly before letting out a long stream of sweet-smelling smoke. “Nina,” she said simply, popping the pipe back between her lips before extending her hand towards Rhys. Still confounded by the sight before him, Rhys could only offer a weak handshake, unable to stop staring.

“Who are you?”

“‘Hi Nina, my name is Rhys, pleased to meet you.” Fixed that for you. Unless you don’t go by Rhys? Lord...Stick-up-my-ass, or something?”

Rhys coughed. “Rhys is fine.”

“Right.” Nina looked Rhys up and down before shrugging and leaning back against a nearby column. “I bet you’re expecting me to ask you why you were at that meeting tonight, right? You’re thinking that I must be so curious as to why a high-ranking lord like yourself would give a shit about us.”

“It might have crossed my mind,” said Rhys.

Nina snorted, emitting a low chuckle as she watched Rhys’ eyebrows raise. “Oh, I think I know exactly why you’re interested in us, and it’s a bit less noble than your little speech last night might suggest. I think it can be summed up in one little word. Jessa. That’s the only mage you really care about. You just want to save her from Miriyam.”

Rhys paled. “How do you-”

“I know more than you think.”

Silence fell, Rhys and Nina sizing each other up in the dim candlelight. Rhys watched the girl carefully through a haze of smoke, unable to look past her child’s face. Nina stared back impassively, waiting.

“Isn’t someone wondering where you are?”

“No,” Nina shrugged. “My mother’s in Antascia somewhere. She’s an artist; she makes a living off the patronage of nobles like yourself with more money than they know what to do with and enough vanity to want a picture of themselves so they can marvel at their own beauty.” Nina laughed, and her pointed look told Rhys she very much suspected he was one of those of whom she spoke. “The old bat who lives next door watches after me. Well, makes sure I’m eating and that I’m not dead is more like it. She goes to sleep after sundown and doesn’t wake up until past noon, so it’s not like she’s doing a lot of ‘watching’.”

“And your father?”

The moment the words left Rhys’ lips he knew he’d hit a nerve. Nina’s lips tightened as she stared off into the darkness. “I don’t know, ask him for me if you ever see him. I haven’t seen him since I was seven.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rhys lamely.

Nina did not meet his eyes. “Don’t be. I’m better off without him anyway. My mother was stupid for thinking she could hide who we were, naive to think he’d just take it in stride. That wasn’t really his way. Most children first show their magic through some form of compulsion - they want something, and next thing they know they’ve convinced an adult to give it to them. Any mage with any wits can recognize that behavior in a second - children can’t exactly control their powers. But I was a bit...unusual. Gave him a bit of a nasty shock when I read his mind and then asked him about it.” Though her words had already confirmed it, Rhys recoiled at the thought. He felt naked, exposed at the idea of his mind being so easily penetrable. What had Nina seen already? Was she in his head then, listening to his concerns? Her face gave nothing away if so.

“I’ve always been unnaturally good at it. Mind reading, that is. So many people think it’s just like eavesdropping on a conversation, as if I’m listening to every mundane thought that runs through someones’ head. As if I’d be interested in that. People’s thoughts are disgusting.” Nina grimaced. “No, good mind reading is far more complicated than that. It’s closer to memory work, but less organized. Looking through someone’s memories is like going through a library. If you know what memory you’re looking for you have an idea of where to look, of how to find it. When you’re looking at someone’s thoughts it’s like being bombarded with noise. Most if it’s disjointed and nonsensical, but if you’re good you learn how to filter through the noise and find what you’re really looking for. What someone thinks of themselves, what they think of others, their fears, their hopes, their weaknesses - it’s all there for the taking. Most mages aren’t talented enough to do it correctly. They either get too overwhelmed by everything or they’re too brash - the person whose mind they’re in can detect their presence in a second, and then what’s the point? The moment someone puts up mental shields most mages give up.”

Rhys raised his brow in incredulity. “But you’re different?”

Nina smirked. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I wasn’t.”

“It sounds like overconfidence to me.”

“It’s not overconfidence if it’s true.”

Rhys did not doubt Nina’s words in their entirety. He had heard her voice in his head. She had known of Jessa and the danger Miriyam posed. Yet those were not thoughts buried deep within Rhys’ mind. They were constantly at the forefront, keeping him up each night with worry. That Nina had power Rhys did not doubt, but that the gangly child before him was some bastion of wisdom and talent was harder to believe.

“Prove it,” said Rhys, watching as Nina rolled her eyes with a scoff. “If you’re as good as you say you are then tell me something you couldn’t possibly know.”

Though clearly aggravated by Rhys’ demand, Nina pursed her lips in thought, wracking her brain. After a moment she looked back towards Rhys with a confident smile. “Miriyam and Johannes Lanis aren’t their real names.”

Rhys did not so much as blink. “They’re using pseudonyms. You don’t need magic to guess that.”

“No, I know their real names. I know more than that - I know everything about them. Lilian and Fredrik Styrke - born in Barichea thirty years ago and given to an orphanage in the north the next day. They were named by the woman who ran the orphanage - their mother wasn’t allowed to name them. They chose the names Miriyam and Johannes when they were 14 - named themselves after figures from Barichene myths. At sixteen they wrote to their father and were promptly ambushed on the streets several weeks later by a group of assassins. Miriyam killed two of them and escaped with her brother. Miryiam loves her brother, but she’s always seen him a bit like deadweight. Always so weak. He’s good at distracting attention from herself, though. And he’ll make a good sacrificial lamb when it comes down to it. Is that enough or should I go on? I could write a book about what I know. It took me weeks, but I scoured her mind down to the last detail. Talk about overconfidence - that woman never suspected for a minute that anyone could get past her mental shields, as if she was some god among men. Plus, no one ever suspects anything from this face. I’m just too cute.”

Rhys’ stared as dread began to slowly creep up on him. Nina’s words matched the truth Rhys knew, and he did not doubt its veracity. It was the how that plagued him. Weeks. Nina had said she’d worked on Miriyam’s mind for weeks. This had been no casual encounter, no chance meeting in a public space.

“How well do you know Miriyam?” Rhys’ voice was cold. Hard. Nina gave it no notice.

“Pretty well, obviously. Certainly better than she thinks I know her.”

“How long were you working with them?”

This time, Nina did not miss the venom in Rhys’ voice, or how his jaw clenched. Her smirk faded into apprehension as she dropped her hand, ash spilling from her pipe onto the stone floor. In that moment her age shined through, looking at him as no more than a child with all pretenses dropped. “It wasn’t like that. I-I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Get out.”

It was Rhys who was on his feet in an instant, rage coursing through him as he stormed toward the exit, every footstep like thunder in the silence. But Nina was faster, popping up before him before he could get more than a few steps. Her hand rested on his arm, but only for a moment before Rhys tore it away. He could barely stomach to look at her. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I left before any of that happened! I didn’t realize things were going to get out of hand, I swear!”

“Out of hand? That’s what you call it? Things just got out of hand? It was a massacre. And what were you doing while I watched the parents of my oldest friend get beheaded in front of us? What were you doing when I watched my brother die in my arms? Were you off hiding somewhere safe like the coward you are? Was this all just a game for you?” Rhys could hear the malice in his voice, could see it in the way Nina flinched at his words, but he could not stop himself. He did not wish to stop.

“You don’t understand!” Nina moved before him, planting herself resolute. “You don’t know what it’s like to be one of us. I haven’t lived in the same city for more than two years since my father threatened to expose my mother and I. Sure, the Lanis’ talked of bringing down the aristocracy to the masses, but behind closed doors they spoke of freedom for mages, of a world where we could not only be free but could have the power we deserved. In truth, they didn’t mean any of it, but I didn’t know that. Don’t you see why that’s tempting for someone like me?”

“And you just didn’t care how she achieved those ends?”

“Miriyam wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her plans.” Nina frowned. “She carefully weeded through her supporters and only told the truth to a select few. I’d fallen from favor some time before the massacre. She began to distrust me. The massacre only cemented the truth that my suspicions had been right.”

Though Rhys could feel Nina’s sincerity, he could not shake his fury. He bit his tongue, Nina jumping on the moment of silence. “You need me, Rhys. You’re not going to find anyone more knowledgeable about the Lanis’ anywhere, and you’re not going to find anyone else with my skill-set in this city. I know what you want and I know you’ve got this all wrong. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

“What do you get out of this?” Rhys snapped. “You tell me that I need you, but you don’t seem to need me for anything. What do you want? Money? Favors?”

Nina looked as though she’d been slapped. “I’m not extorting you, Gods. I know it’s a foreign concept for a Marinon, but sometimes people do things because they’re the right thing to do, not because there’s some great prize in it for them. Did you ever stop and think that maybe I feel bad for my complicity in what happened here? I can’t change the past, and I can’t bring your brother back, but I can try to redeem myself. I want to. Let me try.”

“Insulting me isn’t really helping your cause.”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Rhys and Nina stared at one another in silence for a long moment until Nina let out a great groan, running her hands through her blonde curls in frustration. “Please?” The word sounded as if it grievously pained her. It was enough to almost make Rhys smile. Almost.

Rhys was hesitant with his words, but the moment he began to speak, his voice no longer brash and angry, he saw Nina let out a sigh of relief. “You said I’ve “got this all wrong” when you were talking about the Lanis’. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, I only know what you were thinking at the time, so you could know more than I realize. It seemed to me, though, that you’re under the impression that Miriyam’s plan is all about revenge. Revenge against the father that tried to have her murdered, and revenge against the nobles who shunned her from birth.”

Rhys opened his mouth briefly before closing it again, pausing in thought. “Yes?”

Nina was staring at Rhys as though he were a great fool. “You don’t honestly think that, do you? Miriyam, the woman who successfully organized a group of mages and commoners to massacre a city and took control from your family for months - you really think she’s doing all this for petty revenge?”

“You know, you’d be better off not phrasing everything to make me feel like an idiot.”

Nina paid no mind to his comment. “Are you really so clouded by your love for that du Rene bastard that you honestly don’t see what’s right in front of you? And I thought you were smart.”

Rhys groaned, second guessing his decision already. “Can we stop this game and can you just tell me what you’re trying to say?”

“Rhys - think it through logically. If Miriyam kills the entire du Rene bloodline except herself, who does that leave as the only surviving person with a bloodline claim to the Etrenian throne?”

A dull roar filled Rhys’ head, his heart feeling as though it was in his throat. How had he never seriously considered what was right in front of him? “Her.”

“And if it comes down to her making a claim for the throne, who do you think the many Barichene allies in Ovis will gravitate towards? The daughter of a Barichene noble family? Sure, they may have discarded her and Johannes at birth, but do you not think they’d reclaim her the moment she was useful to them? Do you not think the Barichene queen would like to see Barichea in control of two nations? Rhys, nothing she’s done has been without reason. Why do you think she’s on this weeks-long procession to Ovis? For pleasure? She’s there to gain allies. The moment that procession reaches Ovis don’t think for a second that every person on that trip won’t be under her thumb. Give her a few weeks in Ovis and half the noble families will be on her side, and I imagine a number of commoners too. They won’t know who they’re backing, of course, but Miriyam’s crafty. She’ll thread some sort of story and have everyone eating out of the palm of her hand.”

Rhys rested his head in his hands, his thoughts swimming. He was every bit the fool Nina thought he was. “And Jasrah?”

“A test run. To see how quickly she could throw a coup. Miriyam’s not trying to kill her father for revenge - she’s going to kill her father for his crown. You think Alrick is a bad king? You do not want to know what this world would look like with Miriyam on the throne. I’ve been in her head - I know. We’d be better off dead.”

[Mollianne]

When Jessa entered the Tremonts small library, she was greeted by a line of rocks and gemstones on a table in the centre of the room. Priti sat at the table, facing Jessa and the door. She gestured for Jessa to take the seat on the other side of the table.

Priti did not begin with pleasantries. The moment Jessa was seated, she asked, “Which one do you think is the best for storing magic?” She waved her hand over the stones between them.

Jessa glanced at the stones, but she did not know enough about them to give it much thought. She had not even considered that certain rocks would be better than others, though it seemed fairly obvious now. “I have no idea.”

“Think about it. I have time.” Priti leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands.

Jessa tilted her head, determined to come up with an answer. Theory and logical thought – both were areas where Jessa thrived. It made her miss her tiny office, surrounded by her research. Yet, she knew little of geology. Some of the rocks she recognised – obsidian, granite, sandstone and most of the gemstones – but her knowledge of them all was poor. They were all different colours, but in terms of size they were approximately the same. Some were rough or pock-marked, while others were cut and polished. Jessa supposed that might have some influence, but in what way she could not begin to suggest. Sighing, she pointed at the diamond.

“Why?”

Jessa shrugged. “I’ve seen them used before. In blood amulets.”

“That’s a boring reason.” Jessa couldn’t argue with her. She felt like a failure even as she’d suggested it. “What is it about the diamond that might be useful? Pick it up, feel it.”

Gingerly, Jessa took the diamond and rested it in her palm. At first, she felt silly. But after a moment, the scholar in her firmly took over. She felt its weight in her hand, brushed her hand gently across its polished surface, taking care of its sharp edges. She twisted her lips, glancing at Priti. She could not make a fool of herself. The only thing Jessa had ever had was her brains.

“It’s hard? And… dense?” She closed her eyes. Could she sound more unsure?

“Why do you think that would be beneficial?” Priti was giving nothing away. Her matter-of-fact questioning reminded Jessa of her schooldays. The thought made her smile, and there was an excited thrum in her veins. This was what Jessa loved; she could figure this out.

“It… It’ll be strong enough to hold the magic. And if it’s denser, it can hold more of it?” Jessa guessed. Raising her eyebrows as if to say Jessa was going along the right lines, Priti gave a half-nod. Then Jessa realised something else, and sighed. “But diamond is also brittle, so… maybe it isn’t the best.”

“Good,” Priti said. Jessa beamed, feeling even more like the young girl she had once been, seeking her teachers’ praise. Priti would have made a demanding, perfect teacher in another life. “That is one issue, which is why you’ll mostly see diamond used in magical jewellery. But you mentioned also that you’ve seen it in blood amulets. Now, magic doesn’t have a physical manifestation, so my next question doesn’t really make sense for magic, but for blood – how would it get inside a diamond?”

Jessa brushed her hand against the smooth surface. Unlike some of the others on the table, there were no holes Jessa could feel. She shook her head. Priti took the diamond off her and placed it back on the table.

“Diamond is a material favoured only by masters of the craft. I certainly have never used it. I know the process involves making tiny holes in the surface, injecting the blood, and then resealing the blood. The sealant makes it very desirable, since there’s little chance of leakage, but it really is not for a beginner. To be honest, any blood objects are beyond most mages’ skill. Take your ring.” Priti held out her hand for Jessa to take. Priti brought the hand close to her face, inspecting the ring. “It’s probably howlite, which is much more porous, but softer. It’s less hard-wearing, and more porous rocks have serious limits on longevity, but it’s easier to construct.”

Priti let Jessa’s hand go. Jessa didn’t notice, her attention caught entirely by Priti’s last comment. “Longevity? You mean magical objects have a lifetime?”

“Well, think about it. In the same way that water can move through more permeable rocks, magic can leak out too. That can be a benefit depending on what you want, or it can be a curse.”

“So… yours was a trick question. There is no right stone. It depends what you want to do…”

“Yes, exactly. Why do I feel like you have an idea?” Priti asked warily. Jessa flashed her a thin smile.

“Does that work for memory stones? If I want something to last only a few weeks or so – is that possible?”

“I suppose so, theoretically. It isn’t mentioned anywhere I’ve ever seen, but most people want memory stones so that they can see something of their past far into the future, or, like me,” Priti swallowed hard and clasped her hands together so hard her knuckles began to turn white, “to give to absent family members. In both cases, you want the stones to last.”

Priti brushed a hand under her eyes and cleared her throat. Jessa reached out, but Priti waved her away. She looked up to the ceiling and bit her cheek. "I'm fine."

Jessa nodded. She wouldn't pry; Priti was too private a person.

"Right," Priti said, fixing Jessa with a calm, neutral expression. "So, I'm guessing your question isn't exactly a theoretical one.

"No," Jessa agreed. "I need a way to get information out to people without needing to meet them in person. But if you say magical objects have a finite lifetime, then I can use that to safeguard against it falling into the wrong hands."

Priti raised her eyebrows. "Information?"

"Memories - proof of what Alrick's done. We need to get it out there. Words aren't enough, and in any case I don't think we have time to explain it repeatedly."

"Well... if you think we're running out of time, I guess we better get on with it." She stood, scratching her head as she glanced about the room. "I guess I should get some other samples. I was preparing for an entirely different kind of memory stone..." She went over to a drawer and rummaged through it, waving at Jessa with one hand. "You have a think about what stone might be best."

Jessa stared at the rocks before her. She picked up one whose surface was so marred by holes it was reminiscent of a sponge. It seemed to weigh about as much, too. Though Jessa did not know for how long it would contain magic, she had a strong suspicion it would not be long enough. By the time she had put it back in place, Priti had returned. The stones clattered against the table as Priti dropped them through her fingers. Jessa retrieved the one closest to her. She looked at it from all angles, noting its weight and the irregular holes marring its jagged edges. That each of these stones could produce a different effect even when the magic within was fundamentally identical was-

“Fascinating.” Jessa did not even realise she'd said the words aloud until Priti laughed.

“You don’t have to say that so begrudgingly," she said. “It’s okay to like magic. It’s good. It’s part of you, and it can be used for great things.”

Jessa laughed under her breath, not really believing Priti's words even with the evidence before her. She was only enjoying the theory of it, and that it required her to think, little more. Eventually, after a few missteps and much discussion with Priti as to the various pros and cons of her choices, they finally settled upon a stone that met Jessa's needs.

“We’ll start with you simply directing your magic to the stone. Nothing else, just simply notice how it feels within the stone. Then we can work on shaping the magic to a purpose and untethering the magic from you. And yes,” she added, seeing Jessa’s wide-eyed stare, “that can be as painful as it sounds.”

Under Priti's calming, methodical instruction, Jessa made a cage out of her hands for the basalt. She closed her eyes, trying to focus only on her breathing and the rock held firm against her palms. "Move the stone. Know every part of it. When you're ready, reach out with your magic to touch it."

The stone scratched against her skin as she rolled it around. Though she felt more than a little silly, Jessa's heart pumped in anticipation. She wanted to see what would happen next. Tentatively, she coaxed her magic from within her. A small tendril came to her call; she really had improved her control. The thread of magic wound its way towards the stone, where it stopped and, like a newborn seeing the world for the first time, cautiously poked at the basalt's surface. Though nothing of the sort was happening in reality, Jessa could see it all clearly in her mind.

She urged the magic forward, letting it pool against the surface which acted like a barrier. Priti had not explained what to do next, but Jessa did not pull back. She could do this. She wanted to do this.

A voice in her head was encouraging her, expressing their surprise and delight at her embracing her magic despite her past reservations in Novamor. Then, she realised whose voice it was. She dropped the stone like it was on fire, and the power thrumming through her snuffed out in an instant. It was Rhys. She was hearing the echoes of his support back in Novamor. She pushed the voice out. She did not need him. Rhys had not and did not care whether she embraced her magic. He simply wanted her to control it so her power could be used against the king. She would not have his voice offering support now.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Let’s start again.”

When the bell rang to call the Tremonts downstairs to greet their dinner guests, Jessa jolted. She rubbed her bleary eyes. Surely, she had been hearing things, but when she glanced out of the window she saw the grey skies of dusk. Blinking, Jessa idly ran her finger along the stone she had been practising on, apparently for hours. It was warm; Jessa could swear she could feel it tingling with the power that had passed through it. She had broken through the stone's barrier, not once or twice but many times. It was only the first step, but pride filled her anyway. Never had she made such progress with magic in only a couple of hours. She looked up, smiling, but Priti was nowhere to be found. Jessa had well and truly been absorbed in her task – in magic. Unnerved by her interest, she headed downstairs.

Larend was the first to arrive. He made a beeline for Jessa, pulling two books from his pocket and handed them to her. Jessa smiled in relief. “You got my message.”

“Yes...” Larend rubbed his arm. “I thought at first you wanted it to find more allies like the Tremonts, but you were quite specific about wanting the other diary too...” When Jessa said nothing, Larend sighed. “Do you like keeping me in the dark about everything?”

His harsh tone stunned Jessa into speaking. “No, not at all.” She would not treat Larend how everyone else treated Jessa – with distrust and silence. If there was anyone Jessa could trust in this world, it was surely Larend. “I need to speak to the queen, but she won't tell me what I need to know without an...” Jessa grimaced, “incentive. Your mother probably knew her better than anyone, and hopefully she wrote something in one of these.”

Larend gaped at her. “You're going to blackmail her? You?”

“I don't like it, Larend,” Jessa said, shifting and avoiding his eyes. “But if she knows something we can use against Alrick – and she's lived with him for over twenty years so she probably does – I have to do everything and anything I can to get that information.”

“Anything?” Larend had pulled away from her. The look in his eyes scared Jessa; he did not recognise her.

“I'm not going to physically hurt anyone, Larend. Please-” Jessa reached out to take Larend's hand. “I'm still me.”

Larend's shoulders drooped. “I know. I just... it took me by surprise.” He rubbed his arm again. “There's nothing interesting about the queen before here.” He pointed at a page, a third of the way through the diary, that he'd earmarked. “No doubt you'll read it anyway, but that's how far I've read.”

Other nobles were beginning to arrive now, all familiar from the last dinner party. That they were returning gave Jessa hope, but she knew it was not a foregone conclusion. She had to win their trust and loyalty tonight. These families would not be enough to turn the tide against the king; they needed to reach more people and their time was limited.

Once everyone had congregated, Jessa noted a few absences. Her heart sank, but there was little she could do. She would not force people to rebel. There had been secrecy spells all over the Tremonts' manor, so at least Jessa could be comforted that they could not betray her. Ainesh met her gaze from across the room. He tilted his head in concern before smiling encouragingly and sticking his thumb up. Jessa could not help but smile at his support. For a husband she did not want, Ainesh was more than she could have hoped for. He would make another woman very lucky one day.

“Let us head to the dining room,” Lady Tremont announced.

Dinner was a surprisingly quiet affair. As Jessa ate her simple plate of fish and rice, she braced herself for the inevitable barrage. The assembly of nobles, however, seemed content to wait until all the food was cleared before they began. At length, the nobles turned to face her. Jessa tried not to wilt under their gaze.

“I, and I'm sure everyone else here, have spent the last few days considering your speeches, Lady Jessa.” The woman appraised Jessa, her stare as grave as her voice. It was a stark contrast to the woman's opening comments last time, where she had joked and smiled until Jessa had revealed Novamor's involvement. That none of her humour had returned put Jessa even more on edge. “And I'm afraid to say that on reflection, your story does not add up. How can we trust you – risk our lives for this – if you are not upfront about everything you know.” She paused. “Are you holding something back, Lady?”

Jessa frowned.

“What my dear friend is trying to say, I think, is that you came to Ovis claiming that you had been abused by your husband. Yet it is well known by now that Jasrah supported the Novarian invasion and stood by as they took over the city – until the dreadful events that transpired only a short time ago.” The man bowed his head. “I find it very hard to believe that you would, independently of a husband who in your own words had restricted your freedoms, have too formed an alliance with the Novarians. It is unthinkable that the Marinons would allow you to besmirch their son's name without any recourse, unless you are working together. Somewhere, someone is lying.”

“I lied to the king-”

“Yet you did not take the first opportunity to set your story straight or inform us that the Marinons are also your allies. Whether they are or not is not the problem here – I do not like them but I cannot deny that they are a powerful ally – but the fact that you concealed it is. How can we trust you on anything else when you misled us in the same way you did the king?”

“Bluntly, Lady Jessa, what is the nature of your relationship with the Marinons?”

Jessa stammered, “I don't think that's relevant-”

“We have just laid out that it is. Perhaps we are wrong in assuming the Marinons knew and approved of the lie you would flee to Ovis telling. We need to know the nature of your relationship – friendly, tense, angry, or anything else – before we can possibly agree to an alliance with anyone. The alliance must be a united front otherwise it will fail.”

Jessa dropped her gaze to her knees. She couldn't face them. Her heart ached just thinking about Rhys, and now they wanted her to lay herself bare. She couldn't. She had not spoken to anyone of her relationship with Rhys in months, and she had no intention of dragging up all her pain for these nobles to see. Yet, she must tell them something.

“Rhys Marinon knew,” Jessa said quietly. “He suggested it.” She had not looked up, but she heard the murmurings at her declaration. “We are on the same side.”

“You do not sound convinced, Lady,” the first woman said. Jessa silently cursed her. So her voice had been shaking – could they not just leave it as it was?

“We both stand with the Novarians. The decision is whether you are willing to work with another country too.”

“But how can we believe you?” the woman pressed. “You divorced him. That is not a normal thing. Can you blame us for worrying the relationship isn't a stable one?”

Her hand clutched the tablecloth on reflex, trying to ground herself as she remembered that quiet moment in Alrick's study. She had known nothing back then. She had wanted to give Rhys his freedom and a choice – and he'd certainly made it. Her wild gaze landed on the ring on her finger. It was not his, not theirs. It never would be. Now it was just a reminder that Jessa would never be free while Alrick lived.

“What is the nature of your relationship?” she heard the woman ask again. There was no urgency to her tone, Jessa realised then; instead, she detected the familiar cloying curiosity she had endured when she had first returned to Ovis.

“Nothing,” she whispered anyway.

“Stop it.” The harsh words stopped everyone in their tracks. Jessa looked up in surprise at Ainesh, but he did not notice. He was staring the noblewoman down. “None of this makes any difference to your decision. Jessa's personal life is her own. She has told you the Marinons are as loyal to the cause as she is, and I'm sure my grandmother than corroborate that testimony. Stop being such a gossip.”

“I am not-”

“Yeah, you kind of are,” Ainesh said, back to his usual lighter self. He even winked at her when everyone else murmured their agreement. The woman huffed and folded her arms. “Now, does anyone have anything relevant to ask?”

“We'd like to know the details of what led to your alliance with Novamor. How it happened, when and why. Perhaps you could start from the beginning.”

Jessa nodded, though even as she opened her mouth to begin she knew it would be harder than she thought. Rhys featured in every step she had taken; there was no avoiding him. Lady Kasia would get her gossip after all. Steeling herself, she began with the day that had started it all – Ezaria telling her the truth about the king. Gasps rolled around the room, and more than one stood up in outrage.

“How dare you keep this from us?”

“I... what?” Jessa said. She ran through their last conversation in her head, her heart thrumming harder against her ribcage as it dawned on her that she had not explicitly outed Alrick – or herself – as a mage. All she had told them was the mage ring. She stared at the nobles helplessly. Was she determined to sabotage this alliance before it had begun?

“I... thought you knew,” she said lamely. “I didn't think. I didn't mean to keep it from you. I thought, with knowing the mage ring functions using mind control, you would have...” She opened and closed her mouth. “I'm so sorry.”

“How is this even possible?”

“How did none of you ever… sense him, or whatever it is you do?” The question came from a short man at the end of the table. A non-mage. Since Jessa doubted this group of mages were not sharing that particular secret with a non-mage family – Jessa was even a little surprised that there were so many families that knew about each other – she guessed he was in some way related to one of them.

At his question, many of the nobles had sat down and hunched their shoulders. Some buried their heads into their hands, while others showed their fear plainly on their face.

“It’s possible to hide it,” a woman answered quietly. “It’s what we do. But it isn’t infallible, not over years. And as a child… my mother never sensed anything in him or his brother back then or she would have said something. I never sensed it in his children. Not once. I know I slipped up with my daughter on occasion. The royal family would have been under constant scrutiny, and there’s not even been a rumour?”

The room fell into a disquieting silence as everyone tried to understand what that meant. Jessa already knew; the du Renes were powerful and controlled.

“Could… could he know? About us?” The man wrung his hands as he fixed worried eyes on Jessa. “And have kept us around for some reason?”

“I don’t know. I know he couldn’t just make any of you disappear without repercussions. He’d need a reason to arrest you and I’d assume put on trial. Or… you’d be found dead. An accident.” Jessa shook her head. “That you’re all here, alive, is a good sign.”

Lady Tremont had remained quite silent throughout the exchange. Jessa looked at her, hoping for some support, but the woman did not notice. She was a million miles away, staring off into the distance with a troubled frown. Jessa looked away. “I know this is a lot to take in, and I’m sorry again that I just assumed you would have made the connection, but should I continue with my story?”

Slow nods went around the room. Nodding back, Jessa began. She told them everything, and if she glossed over Rhys’ part in the proceedings, Jessa did not care. Even thinking about Novamor reminded her of how, despite everything, she had been happy. Those quiet moments in that beautiful guest room overlooking the city, laughing with Rhys, were like a dream now. In a way, they were actually dreams. Jessa had seen in Rhys what she had wanted to see.

It was as her story ended with her arrival in Ovis that Jessa realised there was more she must divulge. “When I arrived, I knew I would have to ‘prove my loyalty’ to the king. I think, for a time, I was beginning to convince them, but you should know that, ultimately, I failed. I suppose the king might always have had his suspicions about my time in Novamor and the Marinons’ alliance with Queen Tula, and I had only my story to protect me. But… Rhys Marinon…” Jessa faltered, bowing her head. “Rhys Marinon was tricked and captured by the king. He was tortured-”

She inhaled sharply. She saw the dungeons. She felt her power and her desire to hurt. She saw Rhys on the floor, screaming and writhing at her hand. She could not – would not – say the words. These nobles would not see her suffering. “Suffice it to say, it led to the king learning of my continuing link with the Marinons, and soon after my alliance with Novamor.”

“What?” the first woman said sharply.

“You want us to ally with someone the king knows is a traitor?” The man across from her laughed mirthlessly. “What fools you must think we are!”

“Despite it all, he believes I’m weak and that he has control over me. He has me watched at all times, except while I’m here since he believes the Tremonts are firmly on his side.” It was not Jessa’s place to explain the Tremonts’ plan with Novamor. “Even if he isn’t sure, he would not believe for a second that I could gather people to my cause. I’m quite sure he believes my only purpose is to spy on him and report back to Novamor. He’s done everything he can to make sure I can’t contact them.” She touched the ring on her finger. The nobles closest to her craned their necks, and she saw their eyebrows rise in surprised recognition.

“A blood amulet, to prevent dreamwalking. And all my written correspondence is intercepted. My strength lies in the fact that he does not believe I am capable of drawing people, inside the castle and out, to my side. He underestimates me, just as I’m sure you all did. A lifetime of hiding myself away has its advantages now.”

The nobles were still murmuring amongst themselves. She watched them shake their heads. A few of them glanced at the door. Jessa’s heart hammered against her ribcage. Yet, she had made the right choice in telling them. They deserved her honesty.

Finally, the nobleman across from her said, “I agree with you that our country can no longer go on with Alrick du Rene in power. I cannot stand by while a mage threatens my family and my people for being what he himself is.” He drew in a deep breath. “But allying myself with someone the king knows is against him? That is suicide.”

“My lords and ladies,” Lady Tremont called over the humming agreement that followed the noble’s speech. “Please, let us sojourn to the sitting room. I would have some things I should like to say to you, and I should think Jessa is quite tired.”

The nobles began grumbling, eyeing Jessa and the door. However, one by one they stood and, with much encouragement from Lady Tremont and her sons, they followed her out of the room. The last woman looked back at Jessa, her hand on the door. Jessa hoped Lady Tremont had armed herself with a compelling argument, for Jessa could see it in the woman’s eyes.

Jessa was losing them.

***

Whenever Jessa glanced Ainesh's way that morning at breakfast, she found him watching her. His eyebrows were knotted in an odd mix of curiosity and concern. Of course, she knew the reason and so she also knew that running into him alone was the last thing she wanted. The conversation burning on his tongue was something she did not want to have with him, or anyone else.

Towards the end of a tense and silent breakfast, a servant slipped in with a veritable stack of letters in their hand. All but one was delivered to the king, missives from various military leaders stationed throughout Etrene. The final letter was passed to Catrice. Jessa watched Alrick out of the corner of her eye, hoping for any reaction, when Catrice drew in a sharp breath. Jessa looked over in time to see Catrice reverently stroking the petal of a dried crysanthemum that had fallen out of the envelope. In the next breath, Catrice realised where she was and hurriedly hid the flower in the folds of her dress as she glanced Alrick's way. Jessa straightened.

Catrice was hiding something.

The letter had disappeared by the time Jessa looked back over. Catrice had resumed eating as though nothing had happened, but one hand kept moving to touch her temple before dropping to pat the pocket in her skirt. For Catrice, this was positively flustered.

Alrick cleared his throat. “Jessa.”

Apprehensive of the spiteful glee in her name, Jessa turned to the king. His smile was that of a cat who had caught its prey as he looked up from his latest letter. “I have a surprise for you.”

He stood, gesturing at a servant to open the door. Though Jessa knew his intention, she remained in her seat until Alrick stopped and turned. His eyes narrowed as he, all false innocence, asked, “Do you not want to see your surprise, Jessa?”

She took her time getting out of her seat, under the watchful gaze of the rest of the family. Beside her, Ainesh balled his fists even though there was nothing he could do. Elissa crossed her arms, her eyes burning with hatred and jealously. Jessa could not say what she wanted – if Elissa wanted so desperately to spend time with her dear father, she was more than welcome to take Jessa's place. A tight coil of dread settled in Jessa's stomach.

Alrick led her through the castle to his office. They did not stay long; Alrick dropped his pile of letters onto the desk and crooked his finger for Jessa to follow him out again. Jessa kept a few paces behind him as he led her further from the epicentre of the castle. Their footsteps echoed in the silence. The west wing lay in wait, as if it was holding its breath. It was as though the walls knew something was going to happen. It was a foolish notion – perhaps she had spent too much time two days before with her magic and rocks that had seemed so much more than simple stone – but Jessa was, nevertheless, uneasy.

The hallway opened out onto a familiar round room with the red rug. A fire crackled in the grate. Jessa recalled the time a few months ago when she had seen mages, Odaren among them, gathered before the door on the far side of the room. She glanced at Alrick; this was the man who had stolen Odaren’s life, as well as countless others. How many others had passed through these walls to be interrogated and tortured?

But Jessa did not finish her thought. By the fire, a man loomed over one of the two armchairs in the room. His hands rested on the arms as he said something too low for Jessa to hear. And Jessa – Jessa could see the man tied to the chair.

No.

Jessa stumbled backwards, shaking her head. Alrick turned, reaching out and holding her in place. “Yes, Jessa. Isn’t this a nice surprise? Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He pulled her further into the room. Jessa went willingly, feeling nothing. She only had eyes for the man in the chair, though he did not meet her gaze. In fact, he stared dispassionately ahead, even as Alrick practically threw her into the other chair. He didn’t care.

“What, you don’t have anything to say to each other? How disappointing. And here I was, thinking the two of you shared a great love.” He circled Jessa’s chair, before leaning over the back to whisper in Jessa’s ear. “You’re both mine now. You’ve lost.”

[Rosabeth]

After months in dirtied, torn shirts, in boots whose soles had been nearly worn through, Rhys felt almost too clean. The buttons that came nearly to his neck felt stifling, the fabric heavy and confining. How quickly, it seemed, that his comfort with the posturing and preening of his class had faded. Yet as he glanced at his reflection in a passing window pane, Rhys could not deny that he looked far more like himself than he had in some time. His beard had grown back, though still far too sparse and thin, helping to offset the unsettling resemblance to his father. His appearance was every bit that of a wealthy lord, right down to his posture and mannerisms. It was a reflection Jessa would recognize, one that would draw bows and stares as he passed through a crowd. It was who he was, and yet Rhys could not shake the feeling of watching himself through another’s eyes, detached from any ownership of his own being. It was not a feeling he liked to dwell on.

By the time Rhys arrived in the city center it was positively bustling with thousands of bodies, their voices a great hum that drowned out even Rhys’ thoughts. His mother and father were easy to spot, seated in the shade of an archway at the edge of the square, flanked on each side by a pair of stone-faced guards, their hands never leaving their resting place on the hilts of their swords. Rhys knew the game they played from the thrones on which they rested. Though more modest than those residing inside the king’s chambers, his parents missed no opportunity to project their power. Yet from the dozens of identical guards who surrounded the square, each more imposing than the last and armed to the teeth, it was clear there was a greater projection here than that of a commitment to a centuries-long feud. There would be no repeat of what had occurred only months ago. There would be no more Lanis’. From the sheer number of guards positioned throughout the city, Rhys did not doubt for a moment that his parents would go to any lengths necessary to promise that security.

Rhys felt hundreds of eyes on him as he approached the archway. There were protocols to be followed in public, and Rhys bowed deeply, his mother and father nodding in return. He took his mother’s hand when proffered, moving to stand by her side. He watched her look him up and down, seeing her small smile of approval. As her gaze wandered behind Rhys, and then to the side, her smile dissipated.

“Where is your sister?” She asked quietly. “I told her to stay with you.”

“I didn’t realize when you said ‘watch him’ you meant I was supposed to literally be his body guard. I think he’s old enough to to not need a chaperone.” Anja’s voice came from behind, and both he and his mother turned to find Anja standing beside a guard where Rhys was sure she had not been only a moment before. She sipped at the glass of wine in her hand, looking out lazily over the crowd.

“You know very well what I meant.” Rhys’ mother did not raise her voice, but the simple arch of her brow was enough to silence Anja.

“Mother,” Rhys groaned, Anja merely shrugging as he glanced desperately her way, “I’m fine. I’m more than capable of looking after myself and you know this.”

Despite Rhys’ protest, he and Anja were beckoned to their mother, leaning down until their faces were only inches from hers. “This is non-negotiable. By your own words, Rhys, the king has tried to kill you personally on multiple occasions, and may be looking to confirm whether or not you’re alive as we speak.”

“He knows,” Rhys mumbled. “I ran into who I’m fairly certain was one of his mages the other day. I’m sure he knows by now.”

Had she looked frustrated before, it was nothing compared to the exasperation now clear on his mother’s face as she pressed her thumb and finger to the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Anja, you are to stay with Rhys throughout the evening, is that understood? Keep an eye out and alert your father and I or a guard if you see anything amiss. We are not taking any chances today, am I clear?”

Anja grimaced. “But -”

“Am I clear?”

Rhys and Anja looked between each other with a frown, speaking in unison as they turned away. “Yes, mother.”

“Good.” Their mother smiled, though it did not mask the worry in her voice. She kissed each of their cheeks in turn before dismissing them. Though Anja held her composure until they were in the crowd, with each footstep further away her frown deepened. She kicked at a pebble on the ground with a bit too much force, projecting it towards the unlucky shin of an unsuspecting passerby.

“Well, you were the one who wanted to spend time with me,” said Rhys. Anja’s groan was enough to bring a smile ot Rhys’ lips.

“We wouldn’t be here right now if you weren’t so damn reckless and stupid. They can’t even trust you to spend a day alone without somehow running into some idiotic danger.”

“No one is forcing you to be here,” said Rhys dryly, glancing about the square for any sign of alcohol. “I’m not going to rat you out if you leave.”

Anja sighed. “She’d know. You know she’d know. She has a sixth sense about these scenes. I’d rather not spend the next month groveling to get back in her good graces.”

“I’d love to see you grovel,” a familiar, deep voice laughed. “I’d pay money for it, actually. You should make it a traveling show. You’d make a fortune...not that you need it.”

Victor towered above Anja as he slipped casually between the two, grinning conspiratorially at Rhys. His outstretched hand held a pewter cup filled with questionable contents. Rhys knew Victor well enough to know not to ask questions, taking it from him with thanks and downing half of the contents in one drink. Victor laughed once more, clapping Rhys on the back as Anja let out a noise of disgust.

“Rhys.”

Victor waved off Anja’s complaints, holding out his own cup. “You’re welcome to join.” Anja’s icy glare was the only answer necessary for Victor to rescind the offer, shrugging as he took a drink. “Your loss.”

Rhys looked about Victor, hoping to find Ero and Freya - he dared not hope for Selene - in tow. “Where are the others?”

“Selene’s, well...” Victor rubbed the back of his neck, frowning, “she might be around. I’m not sure. She’d uh, rather not see you, though.” Rhys swallowed, trying to ignore the pain those words brought. He had expected it, but that did not make the truth any less painful. “It’s been rough, but she’s mostly alright. Pissed, but alright. You know I want to be on your side, but -”

“I was the ass, I know. You don’t need to defend me.”

“Good,” Victor grinned. “As for Ero and Freya well...Ero’s, you know...” he peered back at Anja who paid them no mind, looking down into her wine with the utmost misery. Victor raised an eyebrow in question at Rhys, to which Rhys shook his head. He had not yet told his family. It was not a betrayal he was keen to make. “Well,” Victor continued, understanding, “he’s like you might expect. Not exactly thrilled. I still can’t believe it myself. When he told me I was so sure he was lying, that he was trying to mess with me. I just can’t believe it. Freya’s with him. She’s been keeping him sane. They said they’d be around today but, you know, I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t show.”

With it just being the two of them, Rhys and Victor made quick work of their drinks, Rhys having long lost count as the hours drew on. The other revelers were not much better, and as the afternoon grew to evening, that fact that Rhys still had his faculties was a marked improvement from his and Victor’s previous outings. They sat atop a short stone wall near the docks, watching the celebrations that stretched out in front of them from the beaches to the city square. At some point Anja had given up her minder status, drifting into the crowd with a characteristic grumble. For the first while Rhys’ drinks kept down the creeping guilt, redirecting his attentions towards Victor’s stories and banter, never dwelling on the pile of books back home for more than a moment. But as the evening pressed on, the sun dipping behind the horizon, the guilt refused to stay down. As the pleasant buzz turned to creeping anxiety, the guilt too morphed. What began as a preoccupation on magic became guilt for being so bold as to feel happiness when Jessa remained in Ovis, subjected to Alrick’s whims. The guilt did not stop there. It morphed and spread into every corner of Rhys’ mind, leaving him staring at the bottom of an empty cup.

“What if she hates me?”

The words had interrupted Victor’s, his smile fading as he was left open-mouthed and staring at Rhys with furrowed brows.

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t seen her in months. We barely even talked then. What if the next time she sees me...she hates me?”

Victor opened his mouth and closed it again several times, finally resting with the decision to down whatever was left in his cup and slam it down before continuing on. “This is about Jessa? Rhys, I know you’re paranoid about this...thing with the Lanis’, but you can’t let it consume you. You’re doing the best you can. I think - were Jessa here - she’d agree.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Rhys shook his head, leaning forward and pressing his head into his hands. His head swam, though he did not know if it was from the alcohol or the anxiety. He was not sure there was a difference at this point. “I’m talking about me, as a person. Who I am. What if she hates me? After everything I’ve done? I wouldn’t blame her.”

Victor’s arm reached around Rhys’ back, gripping his shoulder and giving him a shake. “Come on. It’s not so bad! She liked you well enough in Novamor, right? Why should this be any different? I know you don’t have the cleanest history, but if I was born into your situation I probably wouldn’t either. She knows that, right?”

“That was different. Things are different. You don’t know...” Rhys’ mind flooded with images of blood soaking his hands, his clothes, covering his face. Death surrounded him, so much of it at his own hands. He pressed his eyes closed, willing away those images that refused to leave. Only Victor’s grip on Rhys’ shoulder pulled him away.

Victor frowned, mulling over some unspoken thoughts for a good while, staring off toward the water. “What happened to you, Rhys? You’ve been different since you’ve been back. I can tell. You’re still you, of course, but you’re...different, I don’t know. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, and you don’t have to, but you know you can, right? You can tell me. Maybe it will help?”

The thought of saying the words out loud was hardly an appealing though on the best of days, and one that made him want to curl up and die on the worst. But somehow in that moment with Victor there looking at him in earnest, with that ever-present buzz egging him on, he felt as though perhaps Victor had a point. He did not think it possible for anyone to truly understand the guilt that consumed him, but Rhys wasn’t sure he wanted understanding. Some miserable part of him wanted judgement. Honesty. For someone to see his crimes through his eyes and not to pretend as though Rhys had simply had no choice, that he was blameless in all things. He was not sure he could expect such judgement from Victor, but by the time the thought passed through his mind he was already speaking, retelling the story of the last weeks and months.

He laid bare his time in Alrick’s dungeons, of the unimaginable torture and the repurcussions of that magic. Of his desire to die but his inability to bring on his death by his own hand. He told of Jessa’s visit, of how Alrick had forced her to torture Rhys, his hands shaking in rage at the memory. Soon Rhys was telling of the mages he killed - murdered - in Ferande, unable to meet Victor’s eyes for the shame of it. By the time he had told the story of the ambush at Solridge, of the thousands who he’d watched die and those who had died by his sword, Rhys was breathless. When he was left with nothing left to tell he simply sat and stared forward, watching the waves lap the shore in the distance. To tell the stories did not quell his grief or his guilt, but for a brief moment he was simply too exhausted to feel.

Victor was not a man of silence, but his seemed to drag on for an eternity. He too stared out at the water beside Rhys, the two of them avoiding a glance at one another for some time. Finally, Victor let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“Now you know,” Rhys muttered.

“Now I know,” Victor echoed in response. “I have to ask,” Victor spoke slowly, tearing his eyes away from the beach, “have you ever wondered if maybe Jessa’s thinking the same thing?”

“What?”

“I don’t mean the guilt about killing people. That’s...something else. That fact that you’re coping as well as you are is impressive, even if you don’t see it. But that’s not the point. What I mean is, this is a war. A war you’re both part of, even if in different ways. Jessa’s been in Ovis for months. She’s been forced to marry again, forced to do probably lots of things on the king’s behalf. Maybe, you know, she’s changed too. Just because she hasn’t been on the battlefield doesn’t mean she’s not fighting this war in her own way. You don’t know what she’s faced, what she’s done. Maybe she feels guilt too. Maybe she worries about how you’ll perceive her.”

Rhys could hardly fathom such an idea. “She’s Jessa. She’d sooner incriminate herself than hurt someone else.”

“Desperate people do things you’d never suspect. Don’t count Jessa out. That she’s still alive may be a sign she’s not quite as morally upstanding as you may think.”

“Even if so, why would she ever worry about what I think. Me? Of all people. As if I could have any place for judgement.”

Victor sighed, shaking Rhys by the shoulder. “Why do you have to be so difficult? Maybe she’s not worried about that. Maybe she has been sparkling clean this entire time and has never so much as swatted a fly. Her goodness truly blinds us all. But even if so, she’s still changed. You couldn’t be in her position and not change. So all I’m saying is maybe you shouldn’t worry too much about her not liking who you are now, when she might not even be who she was anymore.” When Rhys did not respond, still mulling over Victor’s words in his mind, Victor gave him a hard slap on the back. “Hey, maybe it’s not so bad you’ve changed anyway. You were kind of boring before anyway. Being sulky and guilt-ridden is much more attractive in a man, I have it on good authority.” Rhys’ groan brought on a laugh from Victor that felt as though it could shake the stone itself.

“How are you even this thoughtful?”

Victor raised his empty glass and shook it back and forth. “It’s all in the alcohol. It releases my inner philosopher. Get in your questions now while you can. Once I’m sober I’ll be back to boring ol’ me. Speaking of which-” Victor grabbed Rhys’ cup from beside him, holding both up in the air, “I’ll be back momentarily. We are far too sober. We shouldn’t even be able to have this conversation right now.”

When Victor disappeared into the crowd Rhys watched as boxes began to be loaded onto the docks and the beach, the workers clearing those celebrating from the sands and urging them back into the crowds in the city. Rhys could see the faint outlines of his mother and father in the darkness, illuminated by no more than a lantern as they spoke with the workers. A murmur swept through the crowd at this activity as Jasrans began to push toward the low wall where Rhys sat, arranging themselves for the best view. Rhys had almost settled, his anxieties giving him a short reprieve, when a high-pitched voice called out his name from the crowd.

Nina ran through the crowd, her height making her an easy target to follow as she shoved and elbowed her way through the throngs of people, earning her fair share of glares. She gasped for breath as she reached Rhys’ side, immediately grabbing his right arm and nearly pulling him backwards over the wall.

“You need to go right now.”

“What?” Rhys tried to shake off the girl but her grip was surprisingly tight, her nails digging in uncomfortably.
“What are you even talking about? How did you even find me? Were you watching me?”

“No! I wasn’t - ugh, that doesn’t matter. We need to go, and you need to stop asking questions. Long story short there are some people here who very much want to hurt you and things are about to get nasty so you need to move.” She tugged once more, but her skinny frame could barely pull Rhys an inch.

Nina’s words clicked - perhaps a moment too late - and Rhys jolted, throwing his legs to Nina’s side of the wall. “What people? How do you know this?”

“How do you think I know?” Nina hissed, tapping at her head with her finger. “I didn’t mean to hear, it was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time moments. This is what I get for snooping around in strangers’ minds, I guess. But listen, we need to get you out of here and somewhere safe before-”

A crack rippled through the night, so loud Rhys pressed his hands to his ears. The crowd let out a sound of delight as the sky burst into a brilliant yellow. The first firework illuminated the sky, the crowd clapping and cheering for more. When Rhys turned back toward Nina she did not seem enamored with the display, her lips instead forming a perfect O in horror as her eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“It’s too late.”

The second burst exploded in the darkness. But this one was no firework.

The sound was deafening, and a shockwave blew through the crowd, knocking Rhys from his feet. A high ringing was all Rhys could hear as he blinked into the night, now alight with a brightness that he could have mistaken for day. The explosions did not stop. One after another they shook the earth, drowning out the screams of those who tried to run. Rhys could only press his hands to his ears and press his eyes closed, crouching low to the ground as they continued without mercy. When the most intense vibrations began to subside, Rhys tentatively opened his eyes, his vision blurred. This time he did not need Nina’s urging. He wanted to run as fast as his legs would carry him, away from whatever horror he could not see through the blinding light. But the moment Rhys tried to run an object slammed at him from the side, knocking him flat against the ground.

As Rhys struggled against the weight, a something pressed against his chest. Rhys’ eyes focused and he saw what had knocked him to the ground. A man grasped desperately at Rhys, his eyes focused, determined on only one thing. The man’s hands reached for Rhys’ chest, feeling the outline of what laid against his skin below the thick fabric. The blood amulet. Rhys struggled, pushing with all his might at the man, but it was of little use. The man was as large, if not larger, than Rhys, and he held his weight against Rhys’ legs, pinning him to the ground. Rhys struggled fruitlessly again and again, pressing his hands against the man’s face, gripping at his neck, anything to push him away. Suddenly the feeling of fingers against the skin of his neck jolted him from the struggle. The man had found the chain of the blood amulet, and he began to tug, the metal cutting painfully into Rhys’ neck. Rhys gasped as the chain began to cut the air from his lungs, his own hands reaching desperately for the chain, trying to get even a finger between his skin and the hard metal.The man did not stop his intensity for even a moment though his face was contorted in unimaginable pain, his veins practically bursting from his forehead. He was determined to take the amulet or strangle Rhys in the process. Without warning, something collided with the man’s head, sending him slumping to the side.

Victor’s hand extending out to him, pulling him up from the ground with one great tug as Rhys felt desperately at his throat, his fingers brushing against the raw marks etched into his skin, pulling away tinted with blood. “Are you ok? I’m glad I found you!” Victor yelled above the pandemonium, his eyes flickering to the angry welts on Rhys’ neck. Rhys could only give a breathless nod. The man who’d attacked him lay lifeless on the ground beside him, blood trickling from his scalp. “Kicked him in the head,” Victor answered Rhys’ silent question. As Rhys looked around Nina was nowhere in sight, the bit of the street where they now stood abandoned as the rest of the Jasrans ran further into the city for cover. Rhys could only hope she’d found safety.

“Come on!” Victor yelled tugging at Rhys’ arm as Rhys stumbled forward, breaking into an unsteady run. Rhys could hardly focus, could hardly think for the screaming that echoed in the night. It had all happened so suddenly he was not even entirely sure what was going on. As he looked around there did not seem to be any mob, any force of attack, only screaming men and women running frantically for shelter. It was chaos in its finest form. Once they reached the main square a massive crowd had formed, people running in all directions, bumping into one another as they scattered throughout the city. Rhys would have run home too, had it not been for an unmistakable scream that pierced the night.

“RHYS!”

His eyes darted around the square, his heart racing as he tried to follow that scream, his legs taking him faster than he knew they could. Suddenly his eyes found their target and there, cornered by three men and a woman, Anja found herself pressed against a wall.

The moment must have passed in only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Anja moved quickly, dodging grasps and landing blows where she could, her speed and dexterity well beyond that of any of her assailants. Yet she was thoroughly outnumbered, and Rhys watched it happen, watched her give an opening, moving her back from the wall just enough to turn toward the man at her right. Rhys could only watch in horror as the man on the right slipped behind her, taking her arms in his and pressing her back to his chest, fully immobilizing her. It was only a matter of time then. The woman stood before Anja then, and in one swift motion pulled the amulet from around Anja’s neck and throwing it at the wall.

The sound that came from Anja was like only one Rhys had ever heard before. He knew that scream, he knew the excruciating pain from which that deep, animalistic scream came. Rhys watched Anja’s body slump to the ground as the others reached for her, the largest man pulling her limp body up as if she weighed nothing at all. Rhys was running then, but it was useless, there were too many people between him and Anja, the crowd’s frenzy making it impossible to move. By the time Rhys made it through the crowd, Anja had vanished.

Rhys’ heart felt as though it it might burst through his chest. He clutched at his chest, gasping, the pain that overcame him unlike any other. No. He could not accept it, could not fathom it as she looked desperately around, hoping to see a glimpse of that long, dark hair, of a midnight gown. Nothing. There was no sign, no whisper, only horror as Rhys began to shake uncontrollably, unable to breath.

“Rhys? Rhys?”

Slowly, Rhys looked up, finding Victor some distance away, yelling over the crowd as he looked frantically about. He hadn’t seen. He didn’t know. Slowly, Rhys made his way toward Victor, feeling as though he was walking through a dream. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not Anja.

“Rhys!” Victor exclaimed, rushing toward him and gripping him by the shoulders. “Did you see? Look out toward the docks!"

To the south of the square was a gap in the buildings, and through it a straight line for the docks. But as Rhys looked out, he saw nothing but fire and smoke. Where Jasrah’s long docks had once stretched along the shore stood nothing but a blaze and a plume of smoke that stretched a mile high. The docks were gone, the Novarian and Jasran ships that had been docked there gone with them. It was a sight of horror, but Rhys could only think of one thing, one thing that made his heart nearly give out. His parents had been on that dock only moments before the explosion. He was running in an instant, pressing on even as his legs threatened to give out on him. As he turned a corner Nina was suddenly there, her eyebrows shooting up at the sight of him.

"Where did you go? It was some of the mages I heard before. I saw them coming this way and I tried to misdirect them. But then you were gone and I couldn't find you. There's -"

Rhys didn't bother a response, having blanked out on her words nearly immediately. He vaulted over the stone wall, threw himself down a flight of stairs, practically tripping over his own legs as he beelined for the crowd huddled at the beach. Nina followed close, yelling out questions as she went, but Rhys could not bring himself to offer her any attention. His stomach began to churn as he saw the bodies laid out on the sand. His only relief came in the face he recognized from the crowd, crouched down low.

“Father!” Rhys yelled out, his father’s head swiveling toward him as he all but collapsed onto the sand. But as Rhys looked at his father’s face all relief drained from him. He was soaked from head to toe, his face distraught, tears staining his cheeks as his red eyes stared at Rhys.

“Don’t-” he choked, but could not get another word out, instead looking down at the figure on the ground. Rhys knew who it was without question, without so much as a look, but he could not bring himself to accept it. Surely, it was someone else, someone similar. Yet as Rhys crept closer, pushing his way through the last few people in the crowd, he looked down on his mother’s white face, her brown eyes staring up at Rhys as her lips trembled, blood leaking from the corners. Impaling her stomach was a fragment of wood the size of Rhys’ forearm, wedged just under her ribs. She lay in his father's arms, his hand stroking the hair away from her forehead.

"Rhys." Her voice was no more than a whisper. Her hand inched forward ever so slightly, barely enough to register. Rhys grabbed it in an instant, his grip too tight but unable to bring himself to loosen it.

"NINA!" Rhys yelled, the girl jumping back in alarm as Rhys turned on her, frantic. "Get Kelire. Now."

"I-"

"JUST DO IT."

Nina took one glance at the wound, her eyes growing wide, before turning on her heels and sprinting back into the city, her long legs carrying her in bounds. Rhys' body shook, his vision blurred from the tears that welled up. Gingerly, he placed his hand against his mother's arm, holding back a choked sob.

"Please, please, hold on. You'll be alright just-" His words cut off as all his breath left him the moment his mother's eyes flitted closed.

[Mollianne]

“Oh, it is a tragedy, isn’t it – what happened in Jasrah. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, seeing your city crumble before your eyes.” Alrick shook his head sadly. “And your dear, dear family. There's no one left to save you.”

Jessa glanced at Rhys, her mouth going dry. Her tongue scratched against the roof of her mouth as she breathed, “What’s happened?”

“Oh, you'll find out when the news breaks in a day or so,” Alrick said, waving his hand dismissively. He came closer, each footfall punctuated by his words. “How does it feel, Rhys, to know your family are all dead because of you?”

Jessa couldn't breathe. No.

“They're not-” Rhys snapped his mouth shut. He had not intended to speak, to show weakness or doubt. Alrick's grin widened.

“Oh, your father tried valiantly to fight off the men arresting you while your mother lay dying on the ground. But in the end, it wasn't enough. And here we are.”

Jessa's stomach churned. The image Alrick painted in her mind was stark and bleak. Her hand had reached out to comfort Rhys before she even really realised it. This transcended any doubts she felt about him. This would break Rhys. His face was stony, but Jessa knew the torment that would lie beneath it. He did not glance at her, nor make any acknowledgement that she had reached out for him. She was too far away, anyway. She withdrew her hand.

And then it sunk it. Rhys’ parents were dead. His brother’s death would still weight heavily on him; he did not need more grief. The world was cruel. And Alrick relished it.

“I don’t believe you,” Rhys said quietly. The strain in his voice gave lie to his composure, but he was still far more together than Jessa could have expected after all he had suffered.

Alrick strode over to Rhys, grabbing him by the neck and pulling him up as far as his restraints would allow. “Shall I show you?”

Jessa watched, horrified and helpless, as Alrick fell silent. Rhys went limp, staring off into the distance. Jessa’s heart was in her throat, darkly wondering how the magic would affect Rhys in a few hours. And then, only a few moments later, Alrick dropped Rhys and he fell back against his chair. His eyes remained lifeless. A man destroyed.

Alrick shrugged. "You have no one to blame but yourself."

"No." Rhys' voice shook.

"How can it not be? You started this war. You, a tiny insignificant speck of a human, were arrogant enough to believe you could take me down and come out of it unscathed? Your parents are dead for your hubris. They tried to talk you out of it, didn’t they? But you believed you knew better than them. You wanted the glory. At what cost?" The attack went on and on, though Alrick’s voice was quiet and almost toneless. Matter-of-fact. Rhys' shoulders began to droop, defiance stripped away by Alrick's cruel admonishments. "They died hating you for what you'd done to them and their city-"

"No!" Rhys was trembling, rage and anguish fighting for dominance on his face. He looked about wildly, his gaze – for the first time – settling on Jessa. "It's her." He spat out the words as if they were poison. Jessa recoiled, bringing her legs up onto the armchair cushion. "I wish I'd never met you. My parents would still be alive.”

“Rhys,” Jessa breathed, shaking her head. She wrapped an arm around her knees. “No. No, I never meant-”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t mean for this to happen. You’re perfect, aren’t you? You can’t do any wrong. Isn’t that what you want everyone to believe? Well, my parents are dead. If I’d never met you, I’d never have got ideas in my head. Did you ever stop to think what destruction this war might bring? Did you, even for a second, wonder whether it might not be worth it?”

“Rhys, no,” she said, voice breaking. “No, this isn’t you.”

She pressed her hands against her face, hiding her tears. How could he be this cruel? Even if he did not love her, they had agreed about who their enemy was. When that man was standing right there, Jessa could not believe Rhys would turn on her instead.

But… the proof was right there. Jessa pressed her fingers against her eyelids. Maybe, just maybe, it was because Rhys was right. None of this would have happened but for her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She said the words over and over until they began to lose meaning. Rhys scoffed.

“I’m back here, at his mercy, my sister’s been taken too, my parents are dead. And you’re sorry?” Rhys struggled against his restraints. “You should be dead.”

If he’d driven a knife into her chest, it would have hurt less. It was only then, with it snuffing out like a flame, that Jessa realised she had still clung to a tiny glimmer of hope. There would be no reconciliation. There wouldn’t even be friendship. Rhys hated her. And she couldn’t argue. This was her fault.

And yet, even though she had no real argument, Jessa felt anger ignite within her. It was faint, but enough for her to refuse to sit there and take Rhys’ abuse. “You were as much a part of this as I was. Neither of us is responsible – he is.” She pointed at Alrick, eliciting a hard glare. Shaking her head, Jessa sighed and added, “I don’t want to fight with you, Rhys. You’ve just lost your family. You’re in unimaginable pain. But he killed them. Not us.”

“What are you doing?” Alrick hissed at Rhys, who had bowed his head and fallen silent. There was a desperation to his words that made Jessa frown in confusion. Alrick glanced at her, and with a wave of his hand, Jessa’s mind cleared. She turned back to Rhys, the king forgotten.

“If you don’t have anything else to say, I believe you have an appointment with my dungeons,” Alrick said to Rhys. In response, Rhys lifted his head and stared stonily at the king. His silence disturbed Jessa. Two months ago, Rhys had been tortured with magic until he barely hung on to life by a thread, and yet he still had found enough of his spirit to taunt the king. This Rhys was unlike anyone Jessa had known. He would not fight against the king. He had spent all his energy railing on Jessa.

Alrick gestured behind him and a short, unassuming man slipped in from the shadows. He made quick work of Rhys’ restraints. Rhys stood slowly, body relaxed. He did not even attempt to fight. A lump in her throat, Jessa realised what the man was doing. Magic – controlling Rhys, and slowly killing him. The two of them made their way slowly across the room.

Alrick was muttering to himself, “No, no, no, this will not do,” but Jessa barely paid him any attention. She was transfixed by Rhys, desperate for him to look back and tell her he hadn’t meant it.

Just before the shadows swallowed them, Jessa got her part of her wish. Rhys turned around. His eyes were on fire as he pinned Jessa to the chair with his gaze. “I never loved you. You were easy and a fun game. But I also thought you were harmless, and I let you get too close to my family. I was wrong. You’re poison. Everyone you touch dies. Thousands are dead because of you and your supposed good morals. Thousands. I watched them all die, Jessa. All because of you. If I ever get out of this and see you again, you better be ready to kill me first, or I will kill you.”

Jessa couldn’t find it in her to care over her heart ripping to shreds. This was no longer her imagination, concocting her own ideas about how Rhys felt and what he had done. This was real. The only person she had ever loved had unequivocally stomped all over her, and from the hard look in his eyes, he meant every word. If he’d ever cared for her, she destroyed that now.

And why should he care? She was to blame for all his suffering.

“I can stop all this,” Alrick said quietly once Rhys was gone. “You can stop this. It doesn’t have to be like this, Jessa. I’m showing you this – him – because you need to see what you have done to yourself. You need to see the destruction you’re causing to all those around you – those you claim to care about. Is fighting me worth it, Jessa? Is it worth losing everything?”

She was crying. Though she wasn’t quite sure how she got there, she was in her bedroom – on her bed, sobbing. As she thought about it more, she remembered walking back from Alrick’s office after his surprise. Her fear at breakfast of what he might do had been unfounded. It had actually been… something pleasant, as much as she could barely believe it. Yet, she was crying. Why?

There was a knock at the door joining her room to Ainesh’s. She ignored it, even when it grew more insistent. She sniffed, too loudly, and the knocking stopped. “Jessa? I know you’re in there. I can hear you. Please let me come in.”

She sniffed again. Scrubbing her face, as though that would hide her tear-stained cheeks, Jessa said, “You can come in.”

The door swung inwards and Ainesh appeared from behind it. He took one look at her before striding over to sit on the bed beside her. A handkerchief dangled from his fingertips. Jessa accepted it, giving him a watery, grateful smile.

“The king’s surprise…” Ainesh seemed uncharacteristically quite lost for words.

“No, it was fine,” Jessa said, answering his silent question. “Just a history book.” She waved her hand at the thick tome on her bedside table. It didn’t look particularly familiar, but she remembered taking it from Alrick so it had to be true.

“Oh…” Ainesh frowned. “You were gone awhile, though. And now you’re crying. What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jessa mumbled.

“People don’t usually cry at nothing, Jessa.”

Jessa glared at him, dropping the handkerchief into his lap. She didn’t need it. “I’m fine.”

“You know,” Ainesh said, ignoring her and pressing the handkerchief back into her hand, “this may not be a marriage that’s meant to last, but we still made vows to each other. We vowed to support each other in hard times, and to lend an ear – even if the other person is stubbornly refusing to speak.” He flashed a grin at her. She shook her head in exasperation and brushed a finger under her eye to wipe away the tears. “Whatever this marriage truly means, I made those vows to you. I’m here.”

Jessa patted his hand, finally accepting the handkerchief again. He pulled away, but he continued to watch her expectantly. Waiting for her to respond, or to pour her heart out to him. Jessa didn’t know what he wanted, but she did know that she could not say anything.

Ainesh looked like he wanted to scream in frustration, but all he did was wipe a hand across his face. “How about I go first? We can tell each other our secrets.” Barely pausing for breath, giving Jessa no time to even consider rejecting his proposal, Ainesh said, “In a way, like you I’m doing my hardest to avoid something. I make my jokes and tease my family and they all roll their eyes and tell me to be serious. But they need me to keep them sane. They need me to make them laugh. I’m terrified, Jessa. I’m terrified he’ll find out about us and kill us all one by one. My grandmother, my parents, my sister. I can’t stop thinking about us all being dead and him going after Rav and Mala. But, in my darkest moments, I fear it’d be worse than that. He’d keep my sister alive while he hunted her children. He’d make her watch as they suffered.”

Ainesh broke off. Jessa had stopped crying, horrified by the bleak future Ainesh laid out. She reached over and rested her hand over his. “My sister – she’s already been through so much.” Jessa frowned, not knowing what Ainesh meant but also knowing it was not her place to ask. “I want to be strong for her, to keep going as I have done all my life because that’s what they all expect of me, but it’s hard, Jessa. I almost broke down when Rav and Mala left, but I couldn’t. If I cry, I feel like my family will crumble. I’m the jokester. If I break down, what hope is there?”

Jessa had never seen Ainesh so serious, and the sad thing about it was that he was not wrong. A heavy weight pressed down on Jessa, realising that she too had begun to need Ainesh’s cheer during these hard times. She had needed his optimism to face the nobles for a second time. But it was also cruel to expect so much of one person and to take away their right to express their fear and sadness.

“If you ever need somewhere to let out all your frustrations, you can come to me. I won’t judge or expect you to be anything. Or,” she continued with a wink, knowing Ainesh would appreciate levity even as he’d laid himself bare, “you could go to Laurita. I’m sure she’d feel quite honoured.”

Ainesh laughed. Almost immediately, he sobered and tapped the bed near Jessa’s foot. “See? It helps to talk about things. Especially,” he tapped her tear-stiffened cheek with his knuckle, “if it’s making you cry.”

Jessa said nothing, looking away. She heard Ainesh sigh. “I thought we had a deal.”

“I didn’t agree to it,” she mumbled. His words had struck her, however. It was unfair for him to have told her something like that while she remained silent, even if he had done it precisely to make her want to reciprocate.

“Should I tell you another secret?” he cajoled.

“If you’re going to tell me you secretly got engaged to a woman a week before we married, I’d rather you didn’t.” The words were out before Jessa could stop them. She couldn’t quite believe she’d said them. This was asking for trouble.

“Er, what? Gods no.” He stared at Jessa in utter confusion for a few seconds before his mouth formed an ‘o’. “I feel like… there’s a story here.”

Jessa felt safe with Ainesh, in a way she had not felt in Ovis for a very long time except with Laurita. If there was anyone who would sit there and listen without judgement, it would be Ainesh. Yet, Jessa hesitated, for she knew that Ainesh did not trust her even as he requested that she trust him. In the end, he was the same as the rest of her allies: friendly, but all too aware of her proximity to the king.

Was she really considering telling Ainesh everything? She was; she would not have made such a joke if she truly wanted him to drop it.

“I’m not blind, Jessa,” Ainesh said gently, when they had been silent for too long. “I saw you at dinner the other night. I saw how you struggled even to say his name, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why.”

It was only then, with Ainesh all but saying Rhys’ name, that Jessa realised why she was crying. It was pathetic.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you being like this?” Ainesh burst out. His fingers curled into fists in his exasperation. “Why are you so determined to keep this bottled up when I am sitting here, telling you how bad that is and that I’m willing to listen?”

Jessa curled into herself, the tears falling again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve just got so used to hiding myself here.”

“Oh, Jessa.” Ainesh reached for her and crushed her against his side. “I’m going to offer the same thing you just offered me. Somewhere you don’t have to hide.”

Jessa’s laugh turned into a hiccupping sob. She leaned against Ainesh as she clutched the hem of her dress. Her words little more than a breath, Jessa said, “I fell in love with him. I didn’t mean to – I knew what he and his family were. But I saw kindness and mercy in him, and I saw how deeply he loved his family and friends. It let me ignore how he’d treated me at the start.” Jessa’s breath caught. “He… he knew the king had sent me to spy on them, and they tricked me into telling the king about some criminal activity when really they just wanted one of their own allies dead. And after, Rhys laughed at me. That was who he truly was, and yet I let him trick me again. I’m a fool.”

She expected Ainesh to say something, but instead he just looked down at her. His expression was neither pitying nor judgemental. “He never loved me. It was all a trick.”

Somehow, Jessa knew this with certainty. Ever since she had seen him kissing that woman in Ovis, she had speculated over and over, from his realisation of his true feelings until he was free of their marriage to his playing her for a fool from the start. But she had never felt the truth of it until now. It was as if Rhys had told her, but that was impossible. She would remember such a thing, and Rhys was hundreds of miles away.

“Where are you getting this from?” Ainesh asked quietly.

Jessa shook her head, not wanting to say it. Ainesh nudged her and widened his eyes, a silent reminder that she should not keep things bottled up. She closed her eyes. “Our divorce had barely gone through when I saw him kissing another woman. A stranger, no less, as if our time together had meant nothing. I mean nothing.”

There was a long, oppressive silence. Jessa wished she could stuff her words back into her mouth. She’d said too much – more than she wanted to reveal. Now Ainesh knew how pathetic she was, that she had fallen for a man who had so easily tossed her aside. He had not needed to know of the moment that still occasionally taunted her in her dreams.

At length, Ainesh said, “I don’t mean to… negate your feelings. I really, really don’t. But… why would he join your alliance, dragging his family into a fight everyone but the king could see they didn’t really care for, if it was all a game to him? You said the other night that he chose to come with you to meet the queen of Novamor. Couldn’t he have just gone home with his family?”

Jessa frowned, Ainesh’s words muddling her thoughts. “No…” she said slowly, “he knew what Alrick was doing and how dangerous that was. And perhaps – perhaps the Marinons did see an opportunity to influence Etrene’s future. They’d rather have a say in who rules next, someone they could have power over. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. Rhys was the one who suggested I come to Ovis, despite the danger. Perhaps he just wanted to get rid of me.”

“Oh Jessa,” Ainesh sighed, for she had started crying again. Ugly, uncontrollable tears as her words truly sunk in, feeling much more real now she had said them aloud. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She remembered their dreamwalks, where Rhys had seemed so eager to see her, but they must have been lies. She didn’t know how or why, but it didn’t make sense otherwise. She pushed the thoughts away; they were only confusing her. She knew the truth.

“You know what I think?” Ainesh said when Jessa’s sobs began to subside. “I think all of this is just speculation. The only thing you know is that he kissed someone else. Now that’s awful – I’m not denying that – but you can’t keep thinking all of these terrible things about yourself until you’ve actually spoken to him.”

“I don’t want to see him ever again.”

“Then you’ll always have these toxic thoughts.” Ainesh shook his head. “You need to hear the actual truth from him otherwise you’ll keep coming up with wild explanations that only make you feel bad. If you are right about every one of Rhys’ motivations and thoughts, then you know what? You shouldn’t let him destroy you, because you have done nothing wrong. There is no reason to treat yourself like this for his actions. This is on him. And Jessa, a man like that? He’s not worth it.”

Jessa let out a self-deprecating laugh and rubbed her cheek.

“I mean it, Jessa.”

She shook her head. “Don’t tell Laurita.”

“I…” Jessa glanced up to see Ainesh frowning. “I wouldn’t. You should talk to her – she knows far more about all of this that me, and she knows you. But I meant it when I said we can tell each other our secrets. I won’t tell anyone. And,” he squeezed her shoulders, “I’m here whenever you need me. Whenever you feel like this, come to me. I’ll listen and then I’ll make some inappropriate joke or something. Just promise me you won’t keep this inside anymore?”

A wave of affection washed over her. “Thank you, Ainesh,” she said, for couldn’t deny that, though it hadn’t made as much difference as Ainesh might claim, she did feel a little lighter. She felt a little less alone. “I… I promise.”

[Rosabeth]

In those first moments, each second passed like an eon. Then, in one fell swoop, time felt as if it had raced ahead, leaving Rhys staggering. He barely took anything in, the noise that engulfed him and the faces that passed in a blur all nothing but a faint hum in the background. There was only his mother, time suspended around her. At some point Kelire had arrived, though Rhys had not even registered the moment. Running in beside her with a knitted brow of deep concentration was Venya, though it had taken Rhys a moment to recognize the woman in the middle of the commotion. With a rush of movement, many hushed murmurs, and the ever presence of hundreds of eyes all set on them, the race against time began. Rhys did not dare a glance as the wood was removed from his mother’s stomach - not even when he felt the blood drip onto his hands. He did not watch as the women's’ hands began to prod around the wound, or when the healing began and Rhys could see bits of skin and tissue begin to move from the corner of his eye. Rhys kept his eyes locked only on his mother’s face, his hands clasped highly over hers, praying a thousand times over in his head to every god he knew.

As a stretcher was brought and his mother carried away, neither Kelire nor Venya would look Rhys’ way. Perhaps it was simply their concentration for the task at hand that kept their eyes averted, but Rhys could not shake the feeling that there was more to it. No one wanted to make a diagnosis. No one wanted to make the prediction that may send Rhys’ father - already teetering on the edge - into a spiral. Worse, no one wanted to give false hope, only for it to be snatched away. Rhys could not blame the women. Yet as Rhys walked quickly behind the stretcher, having been crowded out by the healers at work, Rhys needed something. Some shred of hope, of relief, of horror and tragedy - anything to pull Rhys from the hell of uncertainty. No such relief came. When they arrived back at the house, his mother rushed off into a closed room, only silence and dread were there to greet them. Then the waiting began.

Rhys’ home had never felt so uninviting. The presence of death surrounded him, pressing in, and that terrible frenzy from the beach left him, a cold numbness taking its place. Rhys paced the room, unable to sit and wait, too afraid of where his thoughts might wander. His father had all but collapsed into a chair the moment they’d entered the room, whatever sliver of energy that hd been pressing him on evaporated in a moment. Rhys remembered clearly the day of Dima’s death, his father’s empty, broken stare as Rhys had laid down Dima’s body before then. In the moment he had thought little of it, too wrapped up in his own grief to care, but as he watched his father unravel before him he understood. His father had been there for Rhys’ mother in her grief. He had swallowed his own grief for hers, to give her that moment. It is what Rhys’ parents had done his entire life. United in all things - one to lead, one to support - never to waver. Rhys had always thought his father so strong. It was not until that moment he realized how much of that strength had come from his mother.

“She can’t die.”

Rhys barely heard his father’s whisper. He paused some feet away, staring as his father shook with silent sobs. He felt paralyzed in the witness of his father’s collapse.

“I can’t lose her. Not her too.” Rhys’ father’s voice was raspy and weak, each word sounding like a great effort. “I don’t even remember what it’s like to live without her. It was so long ago...”

“She’s not going to die.” Rhys wasn’t sure he believed his own words - though he wanted to with every fibre of his being - but he had to hear himself say them. He needed to believe them too. Rhys moved to perch on the edge of the chair, resting his hand on his father’s shoulder. “She’s strong. Stronger than both of us. If anyone can survive, she can.”

Rhys’ father nodded again and again to himself, trying to convince himself of the words Rhys knew he did not believe. He stared down at his clasped hands, his knuckles white. “Why did it have to be her? I was there too. It should have been me. It should have -” His father gasped, a strangled sob breaking through. “I was supposed to die first. I never wanted to outlive her.”

He had tried, but in that moment Rhys could no longer hold himself together. It was like Dima’s death all over again. Each sob felt like a knife through the chest. He was long since grown, but the thought of his mother dead made him feel small and vulnerable, like the child who had cried out for fear of the dark, the child who had fallen asleep in his mother’s arms. Not his mother. Not her. He was not ready. Not now. It was more than he could bear.

Rhys did not know how long they’d sat there, empty and raw. At some point Rhys had moved to the window, letting his head rest against the cool glass, a comfort in this torment. When the door at the far side of the room creaked open, Rhys and his father shot up instantly.

Kelire’s hands were soaked with blood, the sleeves of her dress stained and pushed up past the elbows. The pause before she spoke stretched on for years, decades, and then -

“She’s alive.”

Had he the strength left, Rhys would have wept.

“I don’t mean to get your hopes up just yet.” Kelire’s voice was calm, collected, and as she looked between Rhys and his father she gave an apologetic smile. “We’ve done the best we can. Her internal injuries have been healed, but there are limits as to what magic can do. She’s lost a lot of blood, and we cannot simply put it back. Magic cannot make things out of nothing. We could attempt to artificially speed up the process, but what you’ve told me about your...condition,” she looked to Rhys with a frown, “makes me think to do so may kill her outright. I think it’s best if we let her body take over from here. It is up to fate now.”

Rhys rushed to Kelire’s side, squeezing her hands in his own bloodied ones. “Thank you,” he breathed, closing his eyes. Each word was an effort all on its own. “What...what do you think her chances are? Of...survival.”

Kelire peered over Rhys shoulder at his father, his face burried in his hands. She bit her lip. “Decent. That she’s still alive now is a good sign. She should have died, if I am to be honest. Had it been just me she likely would have. Venya was able to keep her stable, keep her lungs breathing and her heart beating as I healed most of the damage.” Rhys let out a sigh of relief. “I asked Nina to gather some of my things - herbs and tonics and the like - when she came to me. Tygan is helping her. She should be here soon to deliver them. Venya will stay with your mother. She’s been instructed to send Nina to fetch me should things turn worse. Until then, there are others I should tend to, others I saw on our way here who need help.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you not worried about exposing yourself? Some of the things you do can’t be attributed to lesser magic. You know that.”

Kelire sighed, shaking her head. “I’ve hid in the shadows for too long, healing people through subtle means, never being open. How many people died over the years that I could have saved if I’d only been allowed to use my magic openly? Those people on the beach-” her eyes closed, “-that is suffering I cannot let stand. During the massacre I did what I could, but I was too afraid to be open, too afraid the Lanis’ would find me. But now? I don’t care. Let everyone know. I will not let anyone else die.”

For a moment, Rhys was speechless. “I don’t know how to properly thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks. Use your power to do what you can for my kind; that is all I ask. That would be thanks enough.”

Rhys nodded fervently, vowing to himself to heed her words. Kerlire smiled, squeezing Rhys’ hand before she turned to leave. Before she reached the door she paused, turning back towards Rhys. “You may look in on her, if you wish. She’s sleeping, but it might do you good to see her. Especially your father.”

They did not need telling twice. As Rhys turned back toward his father he found him already standing in the doorway, looking in in frozen silence. Rhys approached slowly, steeling himself for what he may see. When he reached that door, peering over his father’s shoulder, he let out a sigh of relief. He had expected something gruesome, perhaps, his mind still fixated on the horrible image from the beach. Though the bed sheets were surely soaked red with blood, a blanked had been drawn up to her chest, covering the worst of it. What was left to see looked oddly...peaceful. His mother’s eyes were closed, her face serene in sleep as Rhys watched her chest rise and fall slowly. Alive. Rhys pressed a hand to his chest as he closed his eyes, the relief immense as it spread throughout. He was too cautious to let hope blind him from the danger still ahead, but that small bit of relief was enough to lift a weight off his chest.

Rhys stayed fixed, watching from a distance as his father slowly inched into the room before covering the last bit of space between them in one sudden sweep, kneeling at the bedside and taking Rhys’ mother’s hand in his. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it, before resting his cheek against it, watching her face. There was such intimacy in his father’s every move that Rhys felt as though he should look away. Venya, who sat quietly on Rhys’ mother’s other side, seemed to feel the same way, looking casually out a window.

As Rhys watched over the moment, a new feeling of dread crept over him, pushing out whatever happiness he’d allowed himself to feel. His father didn’t know about Anja. So consumed with fear for his mother, Rhys had not thought to address it, and in his overwhelming grief, his father had not asked. Now, as Rhys watched his father, he could not control the fear that began to set in. Surely it was only a matter of time until his father awoke from the daze he was in and remembered to ask after Anja. Surely he would find it strange she had not come to see her mother. Rhys did not know how to tell him. His father’s anguish was like no other Rhys had ever seen. To tell him of Anja’s kidnapping - Rhys would not allow himself to entertain the notion of a more horrific fate that might await her - might break whatever thread of hope was keeping him going.

As he felt the panic begin to swell Rhys stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him as he pressed his back to it. He gripped his head in his hands, trying to calm himself. His mother still fighting death, his sister gone, subjected to what Rhys did not know...it was more than Rhys could take. Rhys was so lost in his own mind he paid no attention when the door to the sitting room opened, only opening his eyes when he heard his name yelled and felt two arms wrap themselves around his waist, a warm body holding him tight.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry,” Selene was on the verge of tears herself as she gripped Rhys even tighter. Rhys looked over her head to see Victor, Ero, and Freya standing a few feet back, each of their faces somber. “I shouldn’t have been so angry and locked myself away. I should have been here.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rhys muttered, his voice hoarse. “You did nothing wrong. I was the stupid one. You were well within your rights.”

“Still,” Selene’s voice was muffled as she spoke into Rhys’ shirt, her grip never loosening. Rhys finally let his body relax, returning the embrace. “You’re my best friend - no matter what. None of that stupid anger matters. It’s in the past.” When Selene finally withdrew she gave Rhys a weak smile, gripping his arms. “Are you alright? Is...is your mother alright?”

“She’s alive. Barely.” Selene closed her eyes and shook her head at Rhys’ words, muttering something under her breath. “My father’s in there with her now. I just...couldn’t.”

Victor, Ero, and Freya each embraced Rhys in turn, murmuring their condolences with such sorrow Rhys felt as though it were already a funeral. It was Freya, looking around with surprise, who finally asked the question Rhys had been dreading. “Where’s Anja? I would have though she’d be here.”

Rhys looked to Victor, but his friend’s confusion reminded him that Victor had not seen it. Only Rhys knew the truth. His mouth tasted of ash as he forced the words from himself. “She was...taken.”

“Taken?” Victor’s booming voice made the word almost a shout, and Rhys’ eyes widened. He shook his head, pointing silently toward the door.

“My father...he hasn’t noticed yet. He hasn’t asked. I don’t think he’s been able to really comprehend anything else but my mother’s condition. I’m sure that will change, but I can’t...I can’t tell him. Not yet. It’ll kill him.”

“What do you mean ‘taken’?” Ero asked. “Kidnapped? By who?”

“Mages. That’s all I know. I watched from a distance as a group cornered her. One pulled off her blood amulet and then they carried her off. She screamed for me but I was too late. I didn’t do anything. I just-”

Selene’s hand gave Rhys’ arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s not your fault, Rhys. Don’t blame yourself. Anja’s a fighter - I’m sure she’s giving them hell, wherever she is. She’ll be ok.”

“No,” Rhys shook his head. “She’s like me, with magic. Wherever she is, she’s suffering, I guarantee it. If what’s happening to her is anything like what happened to me in Ovis-” Rhys could not finish that thought. Bile crept up his throat. He would not wish that suffering on anyone.

“Rhys.” Victor looked deep in thought as Rhys turned to him, his lips pressed into a flat line. “That man who was attacking you, he was reaching for your blood amulet. Do you think he meant to take you too? Like with Anja?”

“Yes, and he would have too if I hadn’t dealt with his companions.”

Rhys hadn’t heard Nina enter the room, but there she stood, saddled with two leather bags full of Kelire’s supplies, just as promised. “The only reason your sister’s even alive,” she continued, trudging into the room under the weight of the bags, “is because they didn’t get you. Their plan was just to kill her. You were the one they wanted.”

“Who-” Selene began, narrowing her eyes at the tall, lanky girl who walked casually through the room, beelining for the closed door behind which Rhys’ mother slept. Nina paid no mind to Selene’s question, or to the matching looks of confusion on the rest of Rhys’ friends’ faces.

“You’re lucky I was snooping around in their minds,” Nina said, “or I wouldn’t have had time to keep them off you.”

“You knew? About what they were going to do? You knew about Anja?”

“I tried to tell you. I really did. But it was too late. You’re lucky I managed to find you in time or you’d probably just be a dismembered head on its way to Ovis. If you’re lucky.” Rhys grimaced at the thought.

“Not to interrupt or anything,” Freya interjected, still staring incredulously at Nina, “but who is this, and what is she talking about?”

Rhys paused, glancing towards Nina, but she had disappeared into his mother’s room in that brief moment. Her and Venya’s Freya waited expectantly, as did the rest of his friends, but Rhys only shrugged. How did one explain everything about the strange mindreader? Where did Rhys even begin when he wasn’t entirely sure about her himself? With no energy to even bother an explanation, Rhys said, “She wants to help. And she’s useful.”

“Well she gives me the creeps,” Victor muttered, undoubtedly wondering whether all of Nina’s references to mind-reading applied to him as well.

“Oh trust me,” said Nina, appearing once more, “You’re thoughts aren’t nearly interesting enough for me to waste my time on.”

A quick rap on the door interrupted any thought Rhys had to interject. A servant stood in the doorway, giving a small curtsie as she extended a letter toward Rhys. “This just arrived for you, my lord.”

“Put it in my chambers for me, thank you,” Rhys muttered. Rhys made to turn his attention away, but the servant did not move. She did not so much as blink. Her hand stayed outstretched, unfaltering, as she stared at Rhys fixedly. Rhys glanced towards his friends who all looked at him with the same wariness as he felt.

“You are to open it. Now. I am not to leave until you have opened it.”

The servant spoke as if rehearsed, her words a strange monotone. She did not move closer, waiting instead for Rhys to take a few hesitant steps forward, picking the letter from her hand. She did not leave then, clasping her hands in front of her watching Rhys expectantly. Rhys swallowed, turning the letter over in his hand. The wax seal was no more than a lump, no crest or mark embossed into the wax. Rhys tore through it. Scribbled hastily on the parchment were three sentences that made Rhys’ heat stop.

There is one way to get your sister back - exchange yourself in her place.

Meet by the grove outside the old northern city walls.

You have until midnight tomorrow to decide.

Rhys could not speak. He read the letter over and over, flipping it over in his hands as if he might have missed something. Relief and rage both flooded him simultaneously. Anja was alive. And yet, they tangled her in front of him like bait, taunting him. He knew to expect no less, but such logic did not quell the anger. He glanced over his shoulder, the door to his mother’s room ajar. Quickly, he rushed from the room, pushing past the servant who stood fixed in place. His friends trailed behind him as he weaved through the hall and up two flights of stairs, only coming to a stop once they were closed within his father’s study, far out of earshot of even a single servant. Selene took the letter from his hand after too long of a silence, her eyes widening as she scanned quickly over the words.

“This is a trap. You know this, right? This is just like what the king did with Kieran. He knows you’re susceptible to these kinds of threats. The moment you show up at this meeting place they’re going to kill you. I guarantee you Anja won’t even be there. There’s no proof she’s even still -” Selene pressed her lips shut, catching herself just before she spoke that last work. Rhys did not need to hear it to know what it was. Selene glanced away, unable to meet Rhys’ eye. “Even if she is alive, why would they ever let her go. Having her alive is the probably the best piece of blackmail they could have against your father. With you captured or dead, what lengths do you think your father would go to to get her back? Anything.”

Selene was right. That was clear for Rhys to see, even as the rage and despair that coursed through him felt as though it would drown him. A small cough from the doorway grabbed his attention. Rhys had not noticed the servant from before follow them, though given her identical posture, her face blank and her hands folded in front of her, she may have very well a ghost, flitting from once place to the next.

“I was told you might say this, and I have been instructed to convince you otherwise.” Suddenly, the servant moved forward through the crowd, the others all backing away from her as she walked. She swung open the double doors that led to the balcony. Rhys’ heart plummeted, putting together the pieces too slowly to intervene. He rushed forward but the woman had already climbed up onto the railing, standing precariously on the thin metal. “Do not bother looking into my mind for further information. You won’t find any. Remember - midnight tomorrow. If you are not there, your sister’s fate will be my own.”

With those words, the servant tipped forward, falling head first. Selene’s scream was the only thing to cover the sickening thud as the servant’s body hit the cliffs three stories below. Rhys could not stop himself from rushing forward, as if it would be any help at all. The moment he saw the broken body on the rocks he regretted the decision. Rhys gripped at his stomach, stumbling backwards.

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” Ero’s breathless words were the only one in the heavy silence that had fallen the moment Selene’s scream had been cut. Rhys felt his heart beating wildly in his chest. He could not breath. He could not think. He could only stare out at the balcony, frozen in shock.

Nina had not moved, frozen in place much like Rhys, her hands trembling at her side. “I-I didn’t see much in her head. There wasn’t time. There must have been something I missed, something they didn’t want me to see. Why else would she kill herself if not to dispose of evidence?”

“Maybe whoever sent her just wanted to send a message. Maybe they wanted to shock me.” Rhys forced himself away form the balcony as he spoke, walking toward Selene and taking the letter back once more. He read it again, memorizing every line to memory, before throwing it in the fireplace crackling on the far wall.

“What are you doing?” Selene asked, suddenly pulled from her shock.

“My father can’t see that. He can’t know. He can’t know anything about this. He’d try to stop me.”

“Rhys, why-” Selene stopped, her mouth held open as she stared at Rhys in horror. “No. No, I know that look, I know that voice. Rhys, you can’t be serious.”

“Even if it is a trap, there’s still-”

“Rhys!” It was Ero this time who cried out, looking at Rhys with the same disbelief that was a mask on Selene’s face.

“Look, I know it’s a trap. I know. But if they really want me then they’ll put more resources into making sure they capture me than they would protecting Anja. We don’t know where Anja is, but wherever she is I’m sure she’s heavily guarded. The only one of us who’s a mage here is Nina - we can’t put up a fight. We don’t have the element of surprise on our hands. They will be waiting, even if they don’t think we know their location, I do not think for a second they’ll be taking any chances. The only way we’re going to save Anja is if we divert enough attention away from her and onto me.”

“This is insanity!” Selene pressed her face into her hands, her fingers pressed hard into her temples. “This is suicidal, Rhys. Even best case scenario, how long do you think you’d be able to hold them off? How do you think the rest of us - since I’m assuming that’s where this plan is going - would have even the slightest chance at getting Anja? Even if you managed to make quite a scene, there’s no way they’d leave Anja unattended.”

“I know, I know.” Rhys was pacing then, lost in thought. His ideas were coming rapid fire, his mind a blur. His concentration was the only thing keeping him from losing himself in a full panic. “The message didn’t say come alone or to come unarmed - they’re expecting me to put up a fight, whoever they are. They know I have a blood amulet, so they must be planning on fighting back. They’re going to have a sizable group for that. I don’t know how many of them there are, but surely it will leave whatever group is guarding Anja weakened. All we need is something to weaken them.”

Selene was irate now, her voice growing louder each time she spoke. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t know.”

Selene groaned, throwing her hands up as she turned around, resting her forehead against the bookshelf. The others did not look much happier than Selene, Freya and Ero looking between one another with skepticism as Victor watched Rhys warily. Only Nina seemed unfazed, wrapped up in deep thought.

“Nina,” said Rhys, the girl popping out of her fixed state at the sound of her name. “Is there anything, anything at all that weakens your powers?”

Nina bit her lip. “Well...not really. Obviously magic can subdue magic, but that doesn’t really help you much. I mean, the only time I’ve ever felt like my magic wasn’t as strong as usual was that time I ate some poison berries on accident while out on a picnic with my mother a few years go, but that’s not exactly going to apply here.”

Though Nina paid little mind to her own ramblings, Rhys was enraptured. “Poison? That subdues magic?”

“Kind of. It will temporarily. It will make magic weaker, but it won’t disable it. A good mage could likely heal the poison from within their system unless they were too far gone. You’d either need a poison that would kill them outright, or one where they couldn’t stymie the source. Either way, you’d never get close enough to poison them. It’s not like you can bake the poison into a pie and just leave it at their doorstep with a little letter that says ‘eat me.’ And somehow I think you’re probably morally opposed to poisoning the city’s water source.” Nina shrugged, lifting her hands in defeat. “You could always just blow up wherever they’re hiding out, but I think killing your sister probably defeats the whole purpose.”

Rhys friends looked as defeated as Nina at the offhanded suggestion, but something in Nina’s words ignited a spark in his mind. It was crazy - Rhys did not even know if it was physically possible, and a part of him hoped it wasn’t - but maybe, just maybe, it could work. He would never consider something so dangerous, so malicious, under normal circumstances, but such circumstances were long gone. Rhys was desperate. In desperation, he was not a good man. Knowing what these mages had done to his mother, to his sister, to his very city - he didn't much care either.

“Selene, I need someone who’d be willing to contact Nayall, someone who’s met him. He’s the only one who knows anything about the mage ring here. He might know something about where they’re hiding, about how they’re organized and how they might be thinking.”

Selene looked around wide eyed. “I don’t know how-”

“Tygan does. He’s done it for me before, I imagine he will again if I ask. It’s nothing dangerous, I promise,” he added, seeing the worry on Selene’s face, “I just can’t in my...state. I’ll go with you to Tygan’s to set everything up. Besides, Nina and I need to go there anyway to pay Kelire a visit. She might know how to make this work.” Nina’s eyebrows raised at Rhys’ words but she said nothing. Rhys wondered if she was in his mind then, piecing together his plan as it formed. The others were less trusting.

“Rhys,” Victor’s voice was slow and calm, but laced with uncertainty. He eyed Rhys as though expecting him to lash out at any moment. Rhys did not blame him - he did not want to know what he looked like in this moment. “What are you planning?”

“I’m going to find whatever rat hole they’re hiding out in, and I’m going to smoke them out.”

[Mollianne]

I should have known, really. If she wanted something, she was going to take it no matter who it hurt. I knew that years ago, when she set her sights on Prince Ronard, and later on Alrick when his older brother was barely cold in his grave. I remember telling Graeme they were perfect for each other if they could be so unfeeling about the death of someone they’d claimed to love only a month before. He’d said I was being unkind, but I knew he couldn’t deny that the only thing she cared about was being queen. He knew that all too well – we all did – but he wanted to believe the best of her. He always had, blinded by who he had known as a child.

I should have known. We’d been growing apart for years, keeping secrets. I still hadn’t imagined this level of betrayal. Her. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. So… angry. My darling Helene will say it’s not good for my health. But I can’t help it. It’s bubbling inside me and I can’t stop it. I’m afraid. Afraid of what I might do.

Jessa snapped the diary shut, dropping it on the table. A cold shiver of dread tingled up and down her spine with those final words. It was the last entry in the diary. There was no date marking it, just the hasty, angry scrawl of a woman at her breaking point. Jessa did not need more to know what had happened next. She closed her eyes, swallowing back the tears and breathing deeply to quell the anger. Margrethe should have feared what her rage at Catrice’s betrayal would bring, but she had not feared it enough. She had still sought revenge, and killed an innocent child in the process.

Though Jessa had started the diary with the intention of learning something about Catrice she could use, it had turned into a desperate search to find answers. Yet, she had found little. Margrethe wrote in the diary sparsely, for it spanned her entire marriage with Graeme. Her first entries talked of little but her new husband. When her children were born, she wrote of little else but them, her husband falling to the wayside. She touched occasionally on her illness, but until that final entry there was nothing to suggest she was anything but a quiet, loving mother. Until that last page, it was tactically, carefully and almost emotionlessly written to absolve her of any suspicion should anyone come across it. Margrethe had not been thinking when she had penned that final, angry passage.

Yet the knowledge that Margrethe had been acting on pure emotion did nothing for Jessa. Knowing did not bring her brother back.

Sighing, Jessa looked out of the window. A light rain misted over the castle grounds. She watched it, focusing on it, until she felt herself begin to calm. It would never be okay, but railing at a dead woman would do nothing. In the end, Catrice had sabotaged Margrethe’s plans. Catrice had killed her own son.

She needed to concentrate on Catrice. Find out what she knew. Make her pay. Surely that shouldn’t be too hard? Jessa scoffed. Yes, about as easy as getting rid of Alrick.

Jessa was unsure how long she stared outside before she realised that one gardener had decided to brave the elements. They were half-hidden under a massive bush, their back sodden from the rain and the water dripping off the leaves every time the gardener shifted. They shuffled backwards then, patting the wet soil, and from half their face, Jessa realised it was a man – a man she recognised.

She threw on a coat, buckled her shoes, and was out of her room before it dawned on her that Alrick’s spies would find it suspicious that she would go out in the rain for no reason. She had planned to sit on the bench on the other side of the flower bed where Oleg was working, but no one would sit outside when there were plentiful empty rooms inside the castle. Thinking quickly, Jessa finished locking her door and immediately turned to knock on Ainesh’s.

Jessa waited, conscious that the longer she waited the more likely it was that Oleg would no longer be in the gardens. When a minute had passed with no signs of life, Jessa knocked again. This time, she heard a thud and a groan from within. A few moment later, she heard shuffling steps and, as they drew closer, a litany of muttered curses until the door finally opened. Jessa raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ainesh grumbled, rubbing his eyes. His hair stuck up in all directions, and he was wearing… a bed sheet. Jessa cleared her throat and focused on Ainesh’s face.

“It’s gone midday! Now I see why you weren’t at breakfast.”

“Yeah, well, I was up… late last night. From the sounds of it, so were you. I heard you come back around midnight.”

Jessa frowned. “I didn’t leave my room.” Though she did have to admit that, despite a full night’s sleep, she’d woken up weary and with a killing headache. She shook off the fuzzy feeling in her head, something within her telling her this was hardly important. “Perhaps I started sleepwalking.”

“Yeah, perhaps…” Ainesh said absently, looking over his shoulder at his bed. “Did you need something, or…?”

“I just wondered if you wanted to go for a walk,” Jessa said, shrugging. Ainesh glanced at his bed again, so Jessa added, “I need a distraction.”

That caught Ainesh’s attention, though he was wise enough to keep quiet so that Jessa could spin this to trick the spies. “I just keep thinking about all those Novarians starving because of me. And then I think about how I can’t even help the people closer to home.”

Though it was a perversion of the kind of distraction Jessa required, it was still true. With each day that passed with no news from Novamor, Jessa grew more nervous. The king had, that morning at breakfast, snapped at the servant who had brought the letters as though it was his fault there was nothing about Novamor. So too had he snapped at everyone at the breakfast table – including Maira. Jessa had been glad to see him rattled until he’d turned his gaze on her.

“Give me two minutes,” Ainesh said before closing the door. True to his word, a couple of minutes later he reemerged more appropriately attired and they were on their way.

When Ainesh realised their destination was not somewhere inside the castle but outside, he said, “You know it’s raining.” Jessa just nodded, prompting Ainesh’s sigh. “Oh, good.”

The rain was still a light mist by the time they got outside, but as it was the kind of rain that clung to everything it touched, Jessa felt drenched within a couple of minutes. She and Ainesh wandered the gardens in a fashion that appeared aimless. They talked quietly, Ainesh making his jokes, while Jessa kept an eye out for the gardener.

“There.”

Ainesh followed her gaze. You want to talk to him? It came from inside her head. The only reasons it was not equally as unnerving as when Lady Tremont had done the same at the ball was because she knew it was possible.

Ainesh asked some question aloud that Jessa did not hear, giving her the opportunity to nod. He fell silent, long enough that they came within touching distance of Oleg, who had hastily stood to bow as they passed. He was smart enough to give Jessa no particular attention; nobles really ought to give servants more credit. Ainesh accidentally brushed Oleg’s arm, and then they were leaving him behind. Had Ainesh missed her nod?

Only seconds later, an agonised wail filled the air. Jessa swivelled on the spot and saw Oleg on the ground, clutching his heart. She ran towards him, Ainesh hot on her heels, and sunk to the ground beside him. Frantically, she said, “Oleg?”

Though part of her suspected Oleg’s sudden illness was too coincidental, she could not risk the chance that this was completely real. The man was barely moving. His eyes did not focus on Jessa, nor did he react to her presence in any way. His eyelids drooped. She reached out for his hand and looked around wildly for Ainesh. He appeared on the other side of Oleg, crouching down and gently prying his eyes open.

“We need to get him inside, now,” Jessa ordered. Ainesh nodded, carefully lifting him in his arms. “He needs the healer.”

Oleg’s arm shot out, gripping Jessa’s elbow weakly. He shook his head in a minute gesture, making Jessa frown. She glanced at Ainesh, for his reaction had made her think this was real. Oleg breathed, “No healer,” before his hand lost its grip on Jessa and it fell limply to the side.

“My old room,” Jessa breathed to Ainesh, leading the way. From there, she would call for a healer. Oleg did not get to decide on that front. And if this was a trick – a very good one – then Jessa would have some privacy to ask her questions.

The moment Ainesh placed Oleg on Jessa’s old cot, the man’s eyes flew open. “Water,” he croaked, pulling Ainesh closer and whispering something Jessa did not hear. Ainesh rushed out, calling for someone who could help him and quite deliberately shutting the door. Almost assured that this had been the plan all along, Jessa was surprised when Oleg did not move. She rushed to his side.

“Perhaps… pushed it a bit too far.” He smiled at Jessa’s shocked expression. “Yeah, not sure why I thought really hurting meself was a good idea either. Lord Ainesh told me to fake it.”

“You could have died.” Jessa wanted to shake him for being so ridiculous - all so she could talk to him. Guilt clawed up her throat. “What was that - a heart attack?”

“Something like that,” Oleg said wryly. “Where’s that water?”

Jessa glanced over her shoulder, but the door stubbornly refused to open. Oleg had followed her gaze. He said, “Well, he’ll be back. He said you wanted to speak to me?”

“Oh… that can wait.”

“Jus’ say it. That’s what this was all for anyway, right?”

The guilt rose like bile in her mouth. Swallowing hard, Jessa nodded. “Mahlia told me you used to come to the castle as a boy before you started working here. How long ago was that?”

“I… started when I was nineteen, yes. So I suppose nearly 21 years. But I was coming with me da for years before that, after…” Oleg pressed his lips closed, “well, anyway, I was nearly thirteen.”

Jessa’s heart lodged in her throat. He might have known her mother. Her thoughts began racing wildly, a thousand questions bubbling on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t ask them. She wasn’t ready for the idea she had of her mother to change. She met Oleg’s gaze slowly, and knew he could see her desperation.

He nodded. “I knew her, kind of. She was already pregnant with you when I started coming with me da. And after that she kept to herself-”

Jessa lifted a hand. She didn’t want to hear this, even if they might never have the chance to talk like this again. They didn’t have time. Her voice wavering only a little, she said, “I need anything you know about the queen. From what you’ve said, you’ve been here longer than her. You’ve seen her whole life here.”

Oleg shifted, looking over at the door nervously. Jessa put a hand on his arm. “You’re safe here.” She hoped.

“I don’t know nothing for sure,” Oleg said finally, looking away from the door. He put a hand on his heart, continuing quietly enough that Jessa had to bend closer to hear. His voice was breathless, and Jessa wondered how much of his volume was deliberate and how much was because of his recent self-inflicted illness. “I spent most of my time with Alice Porter, before she died. She was the only one who tolerated a kid hanging around her as she worked – I think because I just listened to her talk and didn’t tell ‘er she was making stuff up. She probably was, most of the time. All her stories were so dramatic and ridiculous, but as I kid I loved it. When I was older I didn’t believe what she said like I had, but she was the only one to help me after my,” Oleg, hesitating, gestured to his eyes, “accident. So I just let her carry on. She loved telling tales about the royals. Murders, affairs… She’d make up wild stories about how none of the princesses and princes were the king’s children. ‘That hair colour’, she’d say. She even said your mother was lying about you.”

Would that that were true, though it did hurt that people believed her mother capable of such a lie, especially when Jessa knew her mother had been worse off for it. Cut off from her family and her old friends, despised by Alrick’s mother and murdered by his new bride. Jessa bit her cheek hard, and the tears thankfully didn’t fall.

“I’m sorry,” Oleg said quietly. “I didn’t mean to… say that.”

She waved his concern away. “The affairs?”

“Maybe. I heard that the king and queen became cold with each other pretty quick into their marriage. Never saw it meself – I don’t really come in here much, just the gardens – but lots of people told Alice it. Apparently. Alice lived in a fantasy world. She went on and on about the queen having an affair with a noble for years. But I mean, even if the queen had an affair, she’d just have flings with the servants like every other noble who’s unhappy in their marriage, right? Not a nobleman.”

Jessa shook her head. She knew Catrice better than Oleg, and could well believe Catrice would not have an affair with a servant. The queen considered everyone but a select few as beneath her.

Or, perhaps that was wishful thinking. An affair with a servant meant little, but one with a nobleman was a secret Catrice would not want revealed.

“Did Alice ever suggest who this noble might be?”

Oleg frowned, then slowly shook his head. His eyelids were drooping, and his arms had fallen limply onto the mattress. “No, actually, I don’t think so now you mention it. Not once.” He seemed surprised even through his fatigue. “She speculated about everything, but not this. Like I say, it was probably all in her head. She had nothing to back it up.”

Ainesh burst into the room then, a glass of water sloshing over the side. Oleg reached out for it gratefully, sitting up slightly with Ainesh’s help so he could drink. Jessa raised her eyebrows at Ainesh. “How long does it take to find water?”

“He told me to make a bit of a fuss and give you some time,” Ainesh replied, helping Oleg lie down again. He folded his arms, daring Jessa to blame him. But she could see the apology in his eyes, knowing that Oleg had genuinely been in pain. “Did you… get what you needed?”

Even though there was no blame in his words, Jessa was reminded again that Oleg would have been perfectly well but for her. That she had nothing concrete for Oleg’s efforts made it worse. She glanced at him, realising from the hard concentration in his eyes that he must be using magic to heal himself, and said to Ainesh, “Perhaps.”

***

The room was abuzz with conversation when Jessa entered the Tremont’s drawing room later that day. At first she stopped dead in the doorway and gripped the doorframe, not even hearing their words over the shock that the nobles were there at all. There were noticeably fewer than the previous dinners, but Jessa had expected no one after her latest revelation. What must Lady Tremont have said to them?

“Have you heard?” Larend asked, appearing at her side and pulling her from the doorway before any of the other nobles noticed her. He tugged her to a corner by her elbow, and did not let go. When Jessa gave him a blank stare, he said, “There’s been a coup in Novamor. The military have taken the capital. I believe there were more riots than ever in the past week or so. I don’t know the details, but the rumour is it’s-”

“A food shortage.” Jessa exhaled, a strange mix of relief and anxiety washing over her. She had not known much about the Tremonts’ plan, but she was glad that the commoners in Novamor would not suffer too much longer for it. She could not bear that guilt. “The country was already near breaking point, with the repeal of the magic ban. The war and Queen Tula leaving for the battlefield probably didn’t help matters.”

“So what does that mean for all of this?” Larend asked, finally letting go of her arm to gesture between them and then the rest of the room. Jessa glanced at the nobles, huddled in groups as they too discussed the consequences. For Jessa, this could not have come at a worse time, and yet she barely gave that thought. Instead, she thought of those living beyond the cocoon of the inner city walls. Those who were similarly starving and angry. Could they revolt as the Novarians had, perhaps inspired by them? Jessa wondered if the city would even hear the news. Alrick would want to bolster Etrenian morale while hoping to weaken the Novarians’, but he must also be aware of the volatile situation in his own city. He would not want to give them ideas, and could easily control the news to suit his purposes.

But what would suit her purpose? Jessa felt sick even thinking it, a sharp twinge in her gut as she realised just how much she had changed. For though she wanted to help the Ovisians first and foremost, she knew she also could not pass by an opportunity to undermine the king and spread that anything she did to help them was in Nayall’s name. Maybe it bettered the commoners’ lives, but it was using them just the same. She felt like her father.

“Jessa!” Lady Tremont called from a few steps away. She raised her eyebrows significantly.

Jessa glanced at Larend. “Sorry.”

He reached out and took her elbow, stopping her before she passed. “Come back with me after this. I…” he looked up at the ceiling, “I miss you. Your friend – well, she’s not exactly the same. And… I feel a bit out of the loop, to be honest. You didn’t seem surprised by Novamor’s predicament at all.”

Jessa smiled tightly, patting Larend’s hand before extricating herself. “Okay, okay, of course.”

“How is the stone work coming along?” Lady Tremont asked by way of greeting.

“Slowly,” she admitted with a grimace. “It makes more sense to me than any other magic I’ve ever tried, but it’s still a struggle. Keeping the magic inside the stone so I can put my memories inside before I untether the magic is… not easy.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “My magic just wants to return to me.”

“Well, don’t let it,” Lady Tremont said, winking.

“I’m surprised you haven’t just suggested Priti do it. We don’t exactly have all the time in the world.”

“You need to learn. Besides, your memories will feel more vivid and real if you’re the one to draw them out. We risk them looking unrealistic – more like moving paintings than true memories – if Priti does it. She will only see the reflection of your memory, after all, not the truth of it.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“Well, you better get these nobles on side today, hadn’t you?” Lady Tremont patted her shoulder. “Try to avoid the revelations today.”

Jessa threw her best glare, but Lady Tremont just smirked. “We need to replenish the memory block before you leave for Larend’s. I suggest you practise with the stones there since you’re not staying.”

“How do you know everything?”

“Talent.” Lady Tremont swanned off, waving at someone across the room. Jessa just shook her head, shrinking back to the side of the room and ignoring the glances the nobles threw her way. Let them stare; at least they had returned. Jessa found Lady Tremont across the room; she had forgotten to ask her how she had managed such a feat.

There was no formal lunch that day. Though the nobility could still easily feed their families, the effects of the Novarian blockages were beginning to be felt by those in the inner city. They would not waste food feeding dozens who had their own food at home. Jessa could only hope this was something that would drive these people to ally with her despite their valid misgivings.

Despite the lack of a meal, they congregated at the dining table once more. Jessa could not help but stare at the empty seats. There had been twenty nobles, not including the Jessa, Larend and the Tremonts. Now there were twelve. Jessa swallowed.

Or eleven she could win over, for one of the men who had been so outspoken at the previous meetings was sat back in his chair, arms folded, glaring at her. The frown lines exacerbated the wrinkles in his pale skin, giving him the look of an angry, old bulldog. He was here to rebuke her every argument, to dissuade his friends. He barked, “Well?”

If Jessa had known what to say, twelve challenging gazes would have stolen the words from her. Under the table, she played nervously with her fingers. “I…” she breathed deeply and shook her head. “What can I say, really? There’s nothing I can do about the truth; that ship has sailed. It is what it is, and I told you all because you deserved to know it. It is better that you know, even if I lose you, than for you to find out later and believe I am not trustworthy.”

A girl leaned over, filling Jessa’s glass with water. She listened to the glug, glug, glug as the liquid tipped out of the jug, trying to calm her nerves. The girl pulled away and – did she squeeze her shoulder? Jessa brushed it off as her imagination playing tricks on her.

Jessa glanced down the table at the varying degrees of unfriendliness, and continued. “But also, you are not following me. I am just the messenger, a small part of a much bigger whole. I don’t really matter. What you’re doing is standing up, albeit secretly, to change things on your own terms. We’re nearly all mages here. As far as it goes for nobles, you have more to lose than the rest. And the most to gain if you ally with the future king. Make no mistake, Nayall Gard will be the next king or I will die trying. It’s only logical to position yourself close to him now so that you have a place at the decision-making table when all of this is done. My father knows only about me.”

“She’s right, you know.” All eyes, including Jessa’s, swivelled to one of the empty chairs further down the table from Jessa. Or what had been empty, for now the servant who had poured Jessa’s water lounged there, her legs kicked irreverently over the arms. The servant seemed to take the speechless nobles in her stride. In fact, she completely ignored them in favour of picking at the velvet lining the arm of the dining chair. “Don’t think I’ve ever sat in a chair this fancy.”

“What is this?” one of the noblewomen finally burst out.

“Angeline,” another cried, “control your serv…”

She trailed off, speechless again. The servant’s face was no longer the servant’s face. Jessa’s heart plummeted. What was she doing?

“Yes, about that servant thing. I’m not one, clearly,” Laurita said, spinning in her seat and standing in a graceful flourish. “What I am is Jessa’s friend, a Novarian spy, and currently not sitting in the king’s prison.” She screwed her lips together in a mockery of thought. “I think if I can manage that, given I’m Novarian, you can all avoid the king with your relatively low-risk roles. Pretty sure the only thing Jessa means for you to do is to support Nayall when the time comes. I’m sure you can all manage to keep your prim and perfect heads – seriously, how long do you all spend getting ready in the morning? – on your shoulders while we actually risk our lives.”

“Laurita,” Jessa warned.

Laurita waved a hand. “She’ll tell you she’s not important, and she believes it so she’s not meaning to lie to you. But without her none of this would be happening. She helped inspire my queen, the queen of Novamor, into action. You want her on your side. So King Alrick knows she was against him. He also arrogant enough to believe he’s put a stop to that. He doesn’t know about me, he doesn’t know about Nayall, he doesn’t know about Larend-” she gave him a little wave, and he looked away in embarrassment, “and he doesn’t know about the Tremonts. All of us have done more than you’ll have to, and we’re still fine. Besides, I think the king is less likely to believe you’d side with your country’s enemy over planning your own coup, especially when he believes Jessa incapable of winning those allies.”

“And I’d wager at least one of you was willing to commit treason for my mother,” Larend said, pushing himself to his feet. Larend was always so quietly thoughtful around Jessa that she forgot that he’d grown up in one of the most powerful families in Ovis. Of course he could stand in front of a dozen pairs of eyes glaring at him and not wither.

“What is this?” the outspoken nobleman – Raynier his name was, Jessa remembered now – asked in disgust.

“Well, you are all the Tremonts’ closest allies, are you not? Someone told my mother about my grandmother’s particular talents. And if that’s the case, at least one of you has the propensity to commit treason despite the risk.”

Lord Raynier waved his hand dismissively. “My boy, it’s different when the king knows one of the leaders is against him.”

“Perhaps, but there are still risks. And he knows about my mother’s plot now, doesn’t he? Yet have there been any other arrests?” Larend paused, but not long enough for anyone to reply. “No, because he’s too busy dealing with the Novarian invasion. He’s too busy focusing on Jessa and her connection to the Novarians. I’m not saying that what you’d be doing isn’t treason, but I’m sure you’re all wily enough to get out of danger when all Jessa needs is your support if we do depose the king.”

“You say that’s all we need to do, but things like this rarely go according to plan. You’ll call on our help before too long. And even if you don’t, what you’re asking of us is still enough to get us killed in an instant.”

“Your mother got no trial, Larend,” a second man added gently, though Jessa was gratified to note that he was eyeing Raynier with more than a little exasperation. Perhaps they would not listen to him.

“This is all well and good,” Raynier said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But it means little when we still haven’t met the man we’re supposed to follow. Does he exist?”

He turned his steely glare on Jessa. She opened her mouth, but before she could say the same platitudes she had given before, Laurita said, “You’re in luck, my lord. Nayall Gard is returning to the city; he’ll be here in a matter of days. I’m sure you’ll be very high on his list of priorities, once he’s made sure the people in his care are doing well.”

Lord Raynier’s gaze had not wavered from Jessa’s, so he saw her freeze with surprise, her mouth still slightly open. She snapped it shut, sitting back in her chair.

“We’re really meant to take the word of someone who doesn’t even know where their leader is?” Raynier scoffed.

Jessa glanced at Laurita, and her friend took a step back upon seeing the accusation in Jessa’s eyes. Laurita’s expression softened with apology. But this was yet another misstep. Jessa’s mouth hardened as she looked away.

“I did not know because of this.” She lifted her hand to show off the ring. “The king has prevented me from long-distance communication, as I said. She is my eyes and ears. I imagine she only just heard the news, and in any case, this is news we have all been waiting to hear. If you don’t like it,” she glared at Raynier, “then no one is keeping you here. Leave. But know that you are forfeiting your chance to influence the new king if you do. The decision is yours.”

She stood, and with a curtsey said, “This meeting is over. Good day.”

She left the room with her head held high, but as soon as the door shut behind her she deflated. She wandered down the hallway, stopping at the foot of the stairs where she gripped the bannister and rested her forehead on her hand. She sighed.

“I’m sorry, Jessa.”

“Do you think I’m incapable?” she asked, her voice quiet and weak, almost child-like. She hated it.

“What?”

“Do you think I’m so incapable of winning over those nobles that you felt you had to intervene, without even telling me?” Jessa spun around to face her friend.

“No, nothing like that.” Laurita wiped a hand over her brow. “Ainesh said-”

“So Ainesh thinks it, and you agreed.” Jessa shook her head before dropping her gaze. So much for Ainesh’s support.

“All he said was that you were too honest, and that the nobles doubted your position and importance because you doubt it. You needed me to say the things you can’t bring yourself to say.”

It felt petty to say that she would have asked Laurita if she had needed her, mostly because Laurita was not wrong. But she was not wholly in the right either. “You made me look like a fool, Laurita. About Nayall.”

“I only found out an hour ago and I came straight here. There wasn’t time to tell you. They were asking and it helps you if they know! They doubted he even existed. The Tremonts haven’t met him, so it was only your word.”

And no one trusted Jessa, not even her closest allies. “Even if he hadn’t explicitly told you, you had to know where he was. You speak to him every day. When will he be here? He’s got to get here from Jasrah, and he can only get as far as Solridge by sea…” She trailed off, seeing Laurita drop her gaze and play nervously with her fingers.

“He’s… not in Jasrah. He’s in Solridge. He was getting some final guidance from the queen, but now Her Majesty is getting ready to leave for Novamor to deal with the coup, so he’s coming here,” Laurita hesitated, “early.”

Despite her relief that the Tremonts’ plan had been enough to draw the queen away from the battlefield, thereby convincing the king that Queen Tula’s attention was divided, Jessa could feel little happiness.

“When was he planning on coming back originally?” Her voice was as bitter as a lemon.

Laurita winced. “I think he was going to leave camp in about a week.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Plans can change. We didn’t want you to make a promise to these people if Nayall would be delayed.”

“So instead you treat me like a child and keep me in the dark?”

They don’t trust you. They don’t trust you. She couldn’t get the words out of her head. They seeped into her heart and took root. They would never trust her.

“I need to go…” She left Laurita behind her without another word, heading back towards the dining room. She would wait for Lady Tremont to be done with the nobles, get her memory block strengthened, and then she would leave. She didn’t want to be here any longer.

***

“Jessa?”

Jessa was slow to react to Larend, too busy staring at the abject emptiness that the Janes’ manor had become. The little table by the door that had hosted an array of winter flowers? Gone. The forest green runner that had been so delightfully soft under Jessa’s feet? Gone. Through the door into the front sitting room? Nothing but the afternoon sun pouring in through the bay windows. The only things that remained were a few paintings of long-gone members of the Janes’ family. They hung as proudly as ever, ignorant to the fact that their family had been brought so low.

“Is there… a table somewhere?” she asked as delicately as she could. She felt in her pockets for the stones, hearing them clack against each other.

Larend pushed a hand through his hair and flashed her a sheepish grimace. “Yeah. I’ve been using my father’s study since everything else is… well, what you can see is pretty much all that’s left. Apart from those godsforsaken clocks. Let’s just say I’m glad my bedroom and my father’s study are both on the other side of the house.”

“I thought you weren’t leaving. Why sell everything?” Though Jessa couldn’t exactly feel bad about it; it was better than all their furniture sitting there gathering dust.

“My father has no intention of returning.” Larend gestured for Jessa to follow him upstairs. “And it isn’t like I plan on staying here after all this is done. Either I’ll be dead or we win and I get as far from Ovis as possible.” He glanced at her, looking like he might want to say more, but then he bit his lip and looked away. At the top of the stairs, he continued, “I don’t need more than a place to sleep and somewhere to get my father’s businesses in order. So, I finally got rid of everything. It’ll probably make my father more insistent that I leave when he learns of the new money in our account, but then he’ll get a report far below what everything was worth so perhaps he’ll just think I’m having trouble selling stuff tainted by the Janes.”

“Below?”

“Well, in this climate I was hardly going to get much money anyway, nor push for it. I went to the markets and sold as much as I could to the few people still running stalls. They’ll sell it as firewood I imagine. For the rest I went to the most scrupulous merchant I could find, and I can only hope she’ll do the same at a fair price. And then I… only reported a quarter of it to the bank. I figured… well, you could use the rest for anything you need against Alrick.”

Larend pushed open the door to the study, but it wasn’t until he’d walked in and turned around that he saw Jessa had not followed. She stared at him. Barely louder than a breath, she said, “What?”

“It’s really not that much. No one has that much money to spend right now. And I don’t really know what you can spend it on. A lot of nobles are going to hoard their food or agree to sell at extortionate prices. The king will probably notice if you buy supplies anyway.”

“I’m sure there are ways,” she murmured. She very much imagined the black market was alive and strong. She had no idea how to access it, but someone would. Oh, how the Marinons had changed how she viewed the world.

“Or perhaps you’ll offer bribes, since you seem okay with blackmail now.” He sounded like he was joking, but he also did not meet her eyes.

“I’m not doing this lightly, Larend. The queen is one of only a few who might have information about Alrick,” and whatever she knew about the kidnappings Khalid had told her about, “and perhaps the only one who could know something the king is unaware she knows. The woman has lived with him for over twenty years. I need to do this.”

“That’s how it starts.”

This conversation would go nowhere. She stepped into the room and touched Larend’s arm. “Thank you, Larend. For the money. And for being the kind of noble willing to sacrifice their fortune.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry I’m disappointing you.”

Larend shook his head. There was little else to say. He could not deny he was disappointed and Jessa could not say she would change her mind. Instead, he gestured for her to take the only seat in the room.

She had laid the stones on the table when Larend said, “I didn’t just ask you here because of my offer or because I want you to tell me what’s going on. The nobles earlier - they weren’t just talking about the coup in Novamor. There’s something else. I figured it was best for you not to hear it until after you’d spoken to them.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.” It was less his words and more the way he perched against the desk, engrossed in playing with his hands instead of meeting Jessa’s gaze, that had Jessa’s heart in her throat. “There was an explosion in Jasrah. The waterfront. There were fireworks, for the Founders Day festival-”

Jessa couldn’t hear him over the rushing in her ears. She stared at Larend, uncomprehending, dread and pain squeezing her heart and sinking into her gut like a rock. Through it all, one thought whirled around her head. She didn’t know from where it had come, or why she felt so certain, but she was terrified for the answer knowing it would be true.

“Lord and Lady Marinon,” she rasped, interrupting Larend, “they’re dead.”

“I…” Larend shook his head, frowning at Jessa. “I don’t know. I don’t… think so. Lady Marinon was badly hurt, but. There’s not been anything about either of them dying. Why… why would you…?”

Jessa’s brows knotted as she opened and closed her mouth uselessly. She had been so sure. “I don’t know.” She pressed a hand against her mouth, turning away from Larend so she could process her initial reaction. Her certainty but also her… almost lack of surprise. She had felt the horror and distress, but it was almost as if she had expected something bad had happened to Jasrah. Her breath came through her fingers in shaky puffs. Her gut fluttered in fear. How could she expect something so horrific without any knowledge of her suspicion until Larend had said it? What was she missing?

Larend had begun speaking again, his confusion still clear in his voice even as he tried to push past it. “The docks-”

“Rhys Marinon, is he-?” She couldn’t finish. She hadn’t even meant to speak. She dreaded the answer, even as the panic bubbling in her chest craved Larend’s answer.

“He wasn’t mentioned. Only Lady Marinon.”

Her heart stopped pounding. She almost dropped her head onto the desk. There were more people she wanted to know were safe. “Ero Tallus, Selene Gaille, Freya Mylir, Victor Greylan?”

“Jessa, I’m sorry. I don’t know. The names don’t sound familiar, but people have been talking more about the explosion itself. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t have to be sorry,” she said, but her thoughts were miles away. She needed to know they were all safe. She needed Laurita. Laurita could contact them somehow, couldn’t she? It didn’t matter that they’d argued compared to this. She shook herself. “What do you know?”

“The docks have been decimated. Most ships were destroyed and I don’t think anyone is docking anytime soon…”

The Novarians. They needed Jasrah. “This wasn’t an accident.”

“Jessa, no one knows anything.”

“You know it wasn’t an accident either. He did this.”

“Why would he have waited so long to act against Jasrah?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he thinks Queen Tula is distracted, he can turn his attention elsewhere.” She added, in a whisper, “I don’t know, Larend.”

Larend pulled her into a hug. Jessa propped her chin on his shoulder as she hugged back, keeping her damp cheeks away from his shirt. He held her as racking sobs took her breath. She couldn’t believe Jasrah had been attacked again. The beautiful city, all it’s wonderful people, a place she had called home more than she ever had Ovis. She could only imagine their pain.

“When this is all over, we’re going to go far away from here,” Larend said. “We’ll go to some ruined city in the middle of nowhere, somewhere you can do your work. And I’ll… I don’t know. Become a farmhand or something. It’ll be somewhere beautiful. They’ll be mountains in the distance, and our houses will stand next to a lake. When you’re not working, we’ll learn how to sail and then we’ll ride that lake to the other end. And the snow in the winter won’t be like it is here.”

Jessa laughed tearfully. “That sounds nice.” She pulled back and wiped her eyes. “I’ll have a cat, I think. I’d call him… I don’t know, Pickles or Oliver or… Cedric. He’d sleep on my bed with me, never leave my side. We’d be happy.”

“I’d have a dog. Let’s hope they’d get along.”

It was a pipe dream, but she could see it comforted him. It comforted her, too. It was nice to think of something after. And with that, her peace came to a shuddering halt. “We need to survive first.”

“Yeah…” Larend breathed as Jessa turned away. She touched a few of the stones. Perhaps she could not let herself dream of a future she would not live to see, but Larend had managed to calm her down enough that she could focus.

“Can I… watch?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’d be very exciting. I’m pretty sure if you see anything, like the stones glowing or something, I’ve done something wrong and you’d need to get out of here before they explode or something.”

Larend shrugged. “I’ve not really seen much magic before. Except this.” He tapped his head, where a similar block to Jessa’s kept him safe from the king.

For the next hour, Jessa tried to clear her mind, gather her magic, and push it into the stone. Larend’s eyes were ever upon her, though, and more than once she lost her concentration. The magic fizzled harmlessly, an energy that tingled her skin but little else. Larend didn’t even seem to notice, his head cupped in his palm and tilted in curiosity. Once, she tried to explain what she was doing, but she either lost track of her thoughts or couldn’t hold onto the magic, so she quickly gave up. How Priti and Lady Tremont could use their power while teaching her was beyond Jessa’s imagination.

She stared at the stone before her, taking in all the holes and veins as she tried to determine where the weak points were and where it was impenetrable. Twisting her lips, Jessa picked up the stone and let it roll onto her palm. Priti had always done it without a physical link and Jessa hadn’t thought to question it, but feeling now the jagged edges of the stone she discovered a clarity she had not felt before. All the times before, she had thought she was containing the magic within the chunk of rock, or else Priti had told her of her success, but as she tried this time - the outside world slipping away, Larend forgotten - she pushed a coiling tendril of magic into the stone and felt it. She could feel the cavities inside the rock, where her magic pooled and where it butted against the walls enclosing it. She could sense the trickle of magic as it seeped out from a leak and tried to rejoin her. On instinct, she pulled another thread of magic, hardening it and pressing it against the crack. The magic swirled inside madly, but it could not escape. She was doing it. Could she try imposing purpose on the magic? Where would she even begin?

CLANG.

The bell seemed to rip through the air, shattering Jessa’s peace and her focus. The magic tumbled from her control even as she scrabbled to regain it. She didn’t have time to shout a warning at Larend before the rock splintered. Fragments rained on Jessa, who had time only to cover her eyes, as the magic burst against a shelf and set one of the few remaining books alight. Her skin stinging, Jessa stared in horror. Larend acted more quickly, shucking off his jacket and throwing it on the book to stifle the flames. Little drops of blood where the debris had struck him. Jessa dropped her head into her hands.

It could have been worse. The rock could have done a lot more damage. The words offered little comfort.

Larend had pulled the book off the shelf, still wrapped in his jacket, and dropped it on the table. Jessa only knew because of the thud it made. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, really,” Larend said. “Just a scratch.”

Jessa hummed noncommittally. The tremor in Larend’s voice belied the reality. Larend cleared his throat. “Right, well. I best go and see who’s at the door.”

Only when he was gone did Jessa lift her head. Shards of stone littered the desk, floor and Jessa’s dress. Like Larend, many of her scratches were bleeding. And the book… she hoped Larend had got to it in time. Larend had been selling everything; for him to keep these books they must hold some importance. Tentatively, she pulled back the jacket and sighed in relief. It was a bit charred around the edges, but it was still intact. Then Jessa saw the title and forgot about everything else.

Harris. She brought the book closer. This was a copy of the book that had enamoured Harris of Antascia. She recalled Edmund saying Lord Janes had given it to him, so perhaps it shouldn’t be such a shock to her system to see the tome somewhere other than amongst Harris’ things. For a moment, she stared at the title. Time seemed to have slowed. And then she flipped through the pages, finding the passage she and Harris had read together only a few days before his death. She stared at the page, at the words, but she could not read them through her blurring eyes. Furiously Jessa brushed away the tears.

She only read a sentence before her tears made it impossible. She continued to flip through the book, wiping her face on her sleeve.

The book came to rest on a page wedged with a small square of parchment. Jessa wiped her eyes again, ignoring how it made them sting, and shimmied the paper out of the crease. She unfolded it, and stared. Then stared some more.

You and the boy would both need to be present for the examination. I need fresh blood samples to test for compatibility.

N. Ritanyi

Jessa frowned, but she had little time to dwell on it. She could hear Larend coming up the stairs. Hastily, she shoved the parchment back in the book fold and shut it tight. At the last moment, she flung the jacket back over the book and turned to see Larend appear at the doorframe. There was a letter in his hand, which he gripped so tightly it was beginning to crease.

“I got a letter only two days ago! I wouldn’t ever have received it when he sent this one.”

But Jessa’s gaze caught on what was tucked into his shirt pocket. “What is that?”

“A dried chrysanthemum,” Larend said absently after glancing at where Jessa was gesturing. “My father’s favourite flower. He’s using it so I know the letters are really from him.”

She stared at it, unable to ascertain why this seemed so important and familiar. The petals were white, a light brush of pink tingeing the tips. She saw it falling out of an envelope, landing on the velvet folds of a luxurious, deep burgundy dress. Or perhaps it landed on a table and was hidden away in the folds of such a dress. Where had she seen it?

“Jessa, are you alright?”

She nodded, still transfixed by the flower. As she stared, it grew more and more familiar.

And then it hit her.

But why would Graeme Janes send a letter to the queen of Etrene?

[Rosabeth]

Over and over, Rhys flitted absentmindedly through the book, listening to the rustling of the soft pages under his fingers. He’d taken the book before leaving his home, surprised to find it well-studied. Anja had been true to her promise to help, and the pages of the tome in his hand were littered with her markings. In a fleeting though, Rhys wondered what Jessa might think of Anja’s obvious disregard for the book’s physical state. Rhys smiled at the thought, but it was short lived. Anja’s findings were largely meaningless, the book filled with seemingly unrelated passages underlined here and there, marked with her personal brand of snide comments. Yet one had stood out among the rest, a dog-eared paged with one sentence circled among the rest. A mage’s physical health great affects their ability to control their magic, as well as the ability for any spell – internally or externally placed – to hold. Rhys had thought of little else since he’d found the passage. Nina had suggested the link between health and magic, but the passage implied more. Externally placed. Though his thoughts were no more than suppositions, the passage was critical information. Of that much, Rhys was certain. That Anja had felt compelled to not comment on it told Rhys she felt the same. The question, then, was what to do with the knowledge.

Rhys started at a sudden knock on the door, the book slamming shut as Selene peered into the room. Rhys relaxed, loosening the grip on the book in his lap. “How did it go with Nayall?”

Selene shrugged, hugging her arms to herself. “It’s a bit…weird. It was so real, you know? I mean, I guess it was real. There’s something unsettling in that. I’m not really used to this magic stuff yet.” Shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts, Selene let out a sigh, loosening her posture. “Anyway, I think it went well. I asked about the house you’d mentioned. He’s certain they’re still using it, even given his escape. He doesn’t think the ring knows about him yet, and thus wouldn’t give up a perfectly good headquarters for what’s only a minor potential threat. I asked him if there were any other places in the city the mages hid, but he said that’s the only one large enough to sufficiently hold and guard Anja. If she’s anywhere, she’s there. He explained to me the layout, and the best ways to get in and out. However, he said to tell me the place is ‘nothing like Ferande.’ He said you’d know what that meant. We won’t get in and out alive unless we have a way to suppress the mages. Anything predictable – like lookout posts and assignments – would be vastly different from when he was there, and on such a short time frame we don’t have the option to observe their patterns. That’s all he could tell me. Sorry.”



Rhys said nothing, mulling over the thought that only confirmed what he’d already guessed. It was yet another dead end, one more aspect of his haphazard plan that had fallen to the wayside. Rhys groaned, rubbing his temples. He’d been too overconfident, letting his anger cloud his rationality. What had seemed reasonable how seemed impossible, and each second that passed was one closer to Anja’s death.

“Did you and Nina have any success with Kelire?”

The scoff that escaped Rhys’ lips came out with more bitterness than he’d intended. “Well, I can tell you she wasn’t exactly thrilled when I was more than a bit cagey about why I was asking her about poison gas. ”

“No suggestions?”

“No, plenty of suggestions actually, just nothing useful. Our most effective option would be to burn sulfur to either kill them or force them out, but that would kill Anja too, and there’d be no way we could get in once the gas has been released. She suggested a few poisons too, but all to the same effect. If Anja is in that building she’d go down with them. Even the poisons Kelire suggested that have known antidotes are far too risky, and we’d risk poisoning ourselves in the process.”

Selene frowned. “But what if they actually follow through with their word and take Anja to the meeting point? Then it wouldn’t matter if we poisoned the place.”

“They won’t,” Rhys shook his head, his fingers still pressed to his forehead. “Alrick has possession of Anja and the ability to get me too. Do you really think he’d throw that away? He might not be able to get my parents, but he could cut off the line with me. No heirs, no Marinons, and no more pain in his ass. So, no. I guarantee the moment Nina and I show up to the rendezvous point they ambush me. Anja will be in that house – I just know it.”

It was clear Selene was resisting the urge to chastise Rhys for his recklessness, but something in her managed to restrain the thoughts. In the resulting silence Rhys began to pack up his things, thinking himself alone when the creaking of floor boards made him believe she’d gone to join the others. Yet when Rhys peered up Selene remained in the doorframe, watching him with concern. It was an expression Rhys knew well, those tight-lips likely holding back the reprimand he knew was coming.

“Come on, out with it.”

“Have you heard anything about your mother?”

Rhys felt a lump form in his throat as he looked away. It was not what he’d expected, and the thought of his mother silenced his unkind thoughts. “I went to the market this morning and tracked down one of the servants. Rumor has it she opened her eyes early in the morning. Additional rumors say she even spoke to my father.”

Selene frowned. “And you believe the rumors?”

“In this circumstance, her being dead makes for far better gossip than her being alive. If they weren’t absolutely sure, I don’t think the servants would be spreading such pleasant gossip.”

Selene bit her lip, straightening as Rhys approached, yet keeping her place in the door frame. Even as Rhys stopped directly before her she did not so much as move, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. “You should go to her, Rhys. This isn’t fair of you. What you’re planning – you could die, or worse. If that happens how is any of this fair to your parents?”

“Selene.”

“No!” What began as concern turned quickly to anger, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Look, someone needs to talk some sense into you since obviously you can’t do it yourself. I get why you’re doing what you’re doing, but you should tell your parents. Anja may be your sister, but she’s their child. They deserve to know.”

Rhys groaned, trying to push past Selene to no avail. She refused to drop her steely gaze, silently challenging Rhys. He only sighed, pressing his hand beside hers on the doorframe and staring back. “Do you think this is my first choice? If I was going to be selfish about this I’d be home right now by my mother’s side. But I can’t. This is my fault. Anja would not be in this position if it wasn’t for me, if it wasn’t for Alrick’s obsession with killing me. My parents have enough to worry about now, and I don’t need my mother worrying about Anja and I when she’s already in a fragile state. My father has never kept a secret from my mother to my knowledge. Telling him is telling her, and I can’t let her know – not now.”

“You sound crazy, you know that, right?” When Rhys ignored the accusation Selene groaned, though she pulled back the arm blocking Rhys’ path. He pushed gently past Selene and hurried down the steps of the Tallus’ home, Selene following close behind and muttering what Rhys was certain were rather pointed insults. Victor, Freya, and Ero were already gathered in the sitting room when Rhys arrived with Nina perched some feet away, her arms crossed and a sour expression on her face. They all looked up at Rhys’ entrance, all awaiting some good news they would not receive.

His hopes had rested on Kelire and Nayall’s knowledge, hopes that now dissipated at no more than a word. Images of the bloodshed in Ferande flooded his mind as he frantically racked his mind for some semblance of a reasonable plan. Even the horror that was Ferande seemed like a preferable option than what he faced. At least those had been unsuspecting targets, easily picked off. This time around, every mage in the city would be awaiting him, expecting exactly the sort of rescue they now plotted. Rhys needed a plan, and he needed one soon, yet it seemed that each fell apart at the simplest prodding.

“So,” Victor started, edging forward in his seat, “what’s the plan?”

“Yes. What is the plan?”

Rhys’ body went rigid at the sound of that all too familiar voice, his eyes pressing shut. “Shit.”

Slow footsteps echoed in the sitting room, growing nearer until they stopped just behind Rhys. As he opened his eyes Victor stared back, a look of silent apology on his face. Freya and Ero wore identical expressions, and without being told the three of them practically pushed each other to the ground trying to flee to the nearest exit. Nina was nowhere to be seen. Only Selene remained, watching Rhys with a certain smug satisfaction before giving a small curtsy and backing from the room the way the others had gone, leaving Rhys to be consumed by his own dread. With a long sigh, Rhys turned, bowing his head.

At first he dared not look at his father, but as the seconds passed in unbearable silence he slowly craned his neck up, meeting the eyes he’d been hoping to avoid. To his surprise the rage he’d fully expected to confront was nowhere to be seen, instead his father’s face no more than a blank slate. Slowly, through the smallest of movements, that utterly unreadable expression betrayed one small glimmer of emotion. Fear.

“Where’s Anja?”

“Father…”

“Tell me.”

Any pretenses disappeared in that moment, Rhys feeling his heart drop. “The mages took her. The same ones that caused the explosion. I’m sorry, Anja and I should have never separated. Mother warned us, but I was being an ass and -” Rhys pressed his lips shut mid-sentence as his father held up a hand, his jaw clenching as his eyes closed. It was agony watching in silence, unknowing what his father was thinking, what he might do. Eventually his father began to slowly nod, his eyes opening as he seemed to stare off at some unknown point in the distance. Rhys waited, but as time passed there were no more words, only his father’s empty stare. “How did you even know where I was?”

The question seemed to snap Rhys’ father from his thoughts, and soon Rhys felt those piercing eyes on him again, his father’s lips curled into a frown. “Well, going to the Tallus’ isn’t exactly hiding, though I know that’s not what you meant. Asking the servants for news on your mother? Really, Rhys? I taught you to do that. But did you not think word would reach me, that I wouldn’t know it was you?” Before Rhys could attempt a defense his father’s eyes softened, pleading. His quiet voice when he spoke was far more alarming than any anger. “I’d begun to grow suspicious when she did not come. At first I’d thought she’d been lost in the crowd. Maybe she hadn’t heard? Or maybe she was out looking for suspects – it would be like here. But by morning… I knew something had happened. Why would you keep something like this from me?”

Rhys felt cowardly as his eyes continually darted away each time he tried to look his father in the eye. “With mother hurt you were so…broken. I was…afraid. I didn’t know how you’d take the news, how it might hurt you. I couldn’t bear to hurt you – or mother - like that.

“So you’d lie to me about Anja?”

“I was trying to protect you! Keep you focused!” The words sounded so empty in Rhys ears as he spoke, exposed for the half-truths they were. His father could see the truth on Rhys’ face, of that he was certain.

“Protect me? Or hide from me?”

Rhys felt like a child recoiling at the accusations. “You would have tried to stop me from putting myself in danger like this. You would have thought the plan was reckless.”

“Of course there’s a plan,” his father muttered. “And what if I did? Would that stop you?”

Rhys paused. “Probably not.”

“So why not just tell me?”

His stupid attempts to maintain secrecy felt so useless with his father before him, his eyes boring in. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered. “Because they want me in exchange for her, and I didn’t want you to know that.”

Rhys did not know what hurt worse – that his father did not look remotely surprised, or the question that followed. “And you were going to just hand yourself over?”

“Gods, no! Do you think I have a death wish?” Rhys gave his father no time to answer that question. “I have a plan. Though apparently not a very good one.”

“Explain.”

“Well, we’re fairly certain we know where the mages are holding her. Nayall knows of a safe house of sorts the ring operated out of when he was a part of it. He thinks it’s still in use. Selene spoke with him, so she knows everything he does in terms of the best plan to assault the place. However, we don’t have the ability to fight them head on, not when I’m the only one with any protection. We have one mage, but that’s not enough. The mage, Nina, she told me poison inhibits a mage’s ability to use their magic. I was thinking if we could poison the place with a gas, like has been used in sieges in the past, it could work. But there’s nothing that wouldn’t kill Anja in the process. Sulfur seemed like the obvious option – easily accessible, effective – but…well, you know how that would go.”

The silence that followed lasted far too long for comfort. Though he expected no less, his father’s face was impassive, perhaps mildly thoughtful at the most descriptive. That Rhys had not immediately been reprimanded had initially been a relief, but as he came to find, no response whatsoever was far worse.

“Are you angry?” Rhys asked quietly.

His father blinked, looking surprised. “Angry? No, not angry. Actually, it’s a decent plan.”

Rhys gaped, sure he’d misheard. “You can’t be serious.”

“I never said it was a sophisticated plan. However, I think you’re onto something. You’re exploiting your enemy’s weakness – that’s good. It means you’re being logical. You just lack sufficient knowledge. But lucky for you, I think I have a solution to your problem.”

Before Rhys could speak his father had turned toward the door, striding quickly toward it. Rhys stood in place, staring in shock as his father rattled off his instructions. “I’ll be back within the hour. Whatever the rest of your plan was, work on it. We will talk. And as for your friends…” Rhys’ father glanced back towards the door at the opposite side of the room wryly, “tell them if they’re going to eavesdrop, not fidget so much; I’m not so old I can’t hear.”

The moment Rhys’ father left Victor shot out from the far door, practically bug-eyed. “He could hear us?”

Ero pushed Victor to the side as he rushed in behind him. “Oh, who cares about that? Everyone can hear you, Victor. You’ve never been quiet a day in your life. The more important question is, what is going on here? When I saw your father I thought for sure-”

“- you were about to get your ass kicked,” Freya finished, popping up behind Ero and nodding fervently. “What happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Rhys shook his head, still dazed, “but I think we might be working together.”

***

True to his word, Rhys’ father waltzed into the sitting room at precisely the top of the hour, a trunk held in one hand. Rhys and his friends inched in closer, all in silence, as the trunk was placed gently on a small table, its latch making a light clicking as its sprung open. Selene alone showed the nerve to stand beside Rhys’ father and look into the trunk, the others all watching anxiously from a safe distance. Nina - though missing the look of trepidation worn by the others - lurked in the far corner of the room, looking very much as though she deeply regretted her involvement.

Rhys watched his father withdraw a small handful of bright green leaves from a leather pouch, holding them out to the group. “Does anyone recognize these?”

There was silence as they all stared at the nondescript leaves, several faces looking Rhys’ way for some sort of guidance. “Don’t look at me,” Rhys muttered. He watched as Selene picked a leaf out of Rhys’ father’s hand, sniffing it and crinkling her nose. She placed it back in the open palm with a shrug. Rhys followed in suit, coming to the same conclusion as Selene when he smelled only a faint, unfamiliar scent.

“Seriously?” Nina laughed, Rhys swiveling to find she’d crept closer, now watching the display in the circle with amusement. “You’re telling me your family is notorious for illegal activity and you don’t know what that is? Well aren’t you just an innocent flower.” Rhys stared open mouthed, prompting a snort from Nina. “It’s moerlin leaf, you idiot.”

As though he had not noticed her presence – though Rhys certainly doubted such a thing – Rhys’ father turned towards Nina with interest, a single brow raised. He glanced Rhys’ way. “And who is this?”

“The mage I was telling you about,” said Rhys. “She’s useful.”

“Useful,” Nina muttered.

“Tell me,” said Rhys’ father, watching Nina with interest, “how do you know what this is?”

“My mother’s an artist; it’s rather popular in that sort of crowd. They say it enhances creativity, though I don’t think anyone really buys that. It’s incredibly hard to find, though. I’ve only seen it a few times. I bet the amount you have in that pouch is worth more than my mother makes in a year.”

“I’m sure it is. It’s not native to Etrene, so any that you’ll find is imported from Aquena. This is, not to mention, that it’s been highly illegal for hundreds of years. And despite what you think, my family does not typically deal in this sort of trade. It’s…below us.” Nina snorted, though Rhys’ father paid her no mind. “However, this plant is an exception. Moerlin leaf is a powerful hallucinogen. Ingested fresh, or inhaled in the burning of its dried form, it provides intense hallucinations and feelings of calm and euphoria. However, it’s extremely difficult to use carefully. Too much turns the hallucinations into nightmares, and the feeling of euphoria turns into terrifying paranoia. Additionally, the more you take in, the more your muscles begin to relax, often to the point of temporary paralysis, and many find themselves temporary blinded.

“Some years ago when you were still a child, Rhys, we had a leak within our trading contacts in Ovis. Someone had tipped off the king as to which harbor we were using to smuggle, and what our ships looked like and how we were hiding the goods. It caused major disruptions for months. It was an absolute mess to clean up. When we discovered the leak, it turned out to be a rival organization of emerging minor nobles who’d come upon a substantial fortune, one of whom used to be in our employ. We would have dealt with them simply, but they’d caught wind that we were onto them and had hired a small mercenary army to protect them. We didn’t want to raise too much attention to the matter so we were forced to get creative with our solution.”

“Why do I feel like this is going to end horrifically?” Freya whispered to Ero, the two of them looking rather uncomfortable.

“The Aquenine army have been developing some rather creative weapons over the years, and it was they who seemed to discover the rather ingenious tactical use of moerlin leaf. One of our men was able to sneak into the kitchens of the traitor’s home and lace ever bit of food and drink with moerlin. When we went in that house that evening every last person was paralyzed on the floor. We took care of them quite easily after that.”

“Gods have mercy,” Selene murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. “You’re not suggesting…”

“Lady Gaille, if I wanted to kill them I wouldn’t be asking you to do it. I don’t care one way or another what happens to them, though if they happen to die…” Rhys’ father merely shrugged. “All I want is to protect my daughter, and keep this whole affair quiet. The less bodies I have to dispose of the easier that job is going to be. Your job is to make sure there’s no one capable of fighting left in that house, and then to get in, get Anja, and get out without causing too much of a disturbance. Inevitable Anja will be affected by the moerlin, but it won’t kill her. Lord Victor, I –”

“I’m the muscle. I know.” Victor nearly grinned, but the somber look on Rhys’ father’s face sobered him. He looked away, rubbing at his neck. “I can carry her. You can trust me. But, I’m a bit confused as to how this is all going to work. They’re not nobles – they don’t have kitchen staff. We can’t poison their food, which leads me to believe we're going to poison them with the smoke. But then how are we supposed to go into the house to get Anja how are we supposed to not get poisoned ourselves?”

Rhys’ father reached into the trunk, pulling out several huge bundles of dried leaves tied off with twine. Victor let out a low whistle, admiring the bouquets. “A few of these in that house and they won’t be able to see, much less walk. As for your second question, the moerlin plant luckily provides its own antidote within its roots. It’s not a perfect antidote, so you may feel a bit woozy still, but it will counteract most of the worst effects. So long as you continuously chew on the roots you should be fine for a short time. I’d just make it a quick expedition if I were you.”

Rhys watched his friends look between each other, each more resigned than the last. Finally, Freya stepped forward, taking Selene’s free hand. Freya gave it a squeeze, looking to her friend with a smile. “I think it’s time we got to planning, and you showed us what you learned from Nayall.”

As his friends plotted, gathered around hand-drawn diagrams of the mage’s hideout, Rhys slipped silently away. He wished for peace, some small moment to gather his thoughts, but the sitting room was not large enough for such an escape. Rhys heard his father’s footsteps before he felt his presence at his side. From the corner of his eye he could watch his father fold his hands, gazing off at the small crowd in patience. Waiting.

“How are you so calm about this?” Rhys said quietly. He looked to the side, watching his father’s face for any hint at a lack of composure. Since his father’s return with the moerlin, Rhys had seen none. A strong, unflinching front was all that faced the world. It was what Rhys had grown to expect from his father, even when he did not understand it. “With mother you were unhinged. I’ve never seen you like that before. It was terrifying. But now? You barely seem bothered.”

“Just because I’m not showing my emotions does not mean I don’t have them,” his father murmured back. He sighed, letting himself relax a small fraction. “This is what I know. Not hostage situations, exactly, but this sort of situation. I know how to deal with criminals, and I know how to deal with threats of violence. This is my normal. Seeing your mother dying and being able to do nothing about it, nothing but wait? That was agonizing. And I think that’s the real key. Right now I feel like I’m in control of the situation. Whether I am or not is another matter, but I feel it. Every single second I am terrified thinking about what might be happening to your sister, but at least this way I feel useful. At least I have a purpose. Can you understand that?”

Rhys could practically feel the blood coating his body as he lay in paralyzed fear, watching thousands slaughtered around him. How he’d wished in that moment he could have done something, anything that would have meant more than a swift death that helped no one and meant nothing. Rhys swallowed, his throat dry, his mouth tasting of ash. When he gave no answer, only staring forward, his father nodded in understanding.

“What are you going to do about the exchange the mages proposed? I trust you’re not going to sneak away on me and try to hand yourself over?”

Rhys grimaced. “No, no sneaking. I will meet them, though.” Rhys watched his father look over in surprise, Rhys quickly continuing to avoid a certain lecture. “It will act as a necessary distraction. If I don’t show up, the mages will know I’ve gone to the house. Right now they may not know we’re aware of their hideout – if I don’t show up they may grow suspicious.”

“Surely they’ll just try to take you anyway?”

“I can put up a good fight.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I’ll have Nina with me too. She’s a mind reader, so she’ll help me monitor what the mages are planning. Useful, like I said. Hopefully this should buy the others enough time to make getting Anja as easy as possible.”

“What if they send more mages than you can fight? Your blood amulet can’t protect you from a knife.”

Rhys paused. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

He was certain he heard a sigh of defeat, yet as Rhys looked to his father he did not see the frustration he expected, but rather a mask of determination. “I’m coming with you.”

“No!” Rhys bit his tongue just as the word escaped his mouth, watching his father stare at him incredulously. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t, I just thought you’d want to help rescue Anja.”

“And leave you on your own?”

The question felt like a trap, one Rhys was obliged to walk into. “I can take care of myself.”

“It always comes down to this, doesn’t it?” His father gave an exasperated sigh. He turned towards Rhys, taking him firmly by the shoulder. “What will it take to make you believe that I don’t love your sister more than you?”

“I never said –”

“You didn’t need to.”

They hung there in the air, those words often left unspoken. Rhys had heard his father’s assurances before, but despite the goodwill they spread, they did not stick. He did not know how many times they would need repeated before they did. How long would it take for a decade of bitterness to dissipate? More than the time that had passed. He’d believed his father when they’d spoke in the mausoleum, but knowing the words were true did not erase the insecurities that had festered for so long. Rhys nodded lamely, acutely aware of his father watching him closely, the concern plain on his face. In the moment there was nothing to be done, not with more pressing matters at hand. As Rhys beckoned over an apprehensive looking Nina he could hear his father sigh, but the matter was dropped. There was planning to be done.

***

The clear, dark sky made for a cold night, one Rhys embraced. The cool air swept over them as they rode through the darkness, its sharpness clearing Rhys’ mind. The guard post at the northern gates sat abandoned as they passed, Rhys’ father glancing Rhys’ way as they shared a knowing look. The quiet so late in the evening was of no surprise, but the details were hardly coincidental. At the tree line past the walls they began the trek by foot. It was but a short distance to the grove, but in those short minutes each second dragged on. Rhys felt for the hilt of his dagger, finding comfort in its weight. There was little chance the confrontation would not end in violence. The blood amulet weighed heavy against Rhys’ chest, tucked away behind several layers of clothing and strung on a sturdy chain. There would be little chance of a mage ripping it from his neck as they’d done with Anja, but he did not think for a moment that they would not try. There was some comfort to be found in knowing these mages were not trained fighters, but Rhys knew their numbers would overwhelm him. This was not a fight Rhys was expecting to win – it was just one he hoped to survive.

Nina had said little the way there, and Rhys’ attempts to converse had been met with a colorful telling off. Rhys wondered if she was somehow focusing her magic, or if that were even a thing. She above all would be targeted by the other mages keen to take our Rhys’ first line of defense. When Rhys had raised this point Nina had brushed him off with typical confidence, but as the night grew later he’d watched her slowly grow more and more quiet, withdrawing to the point where any attempt at conversation were met with fervent animosity. He could not pretend to be unhappy to have her there, her powers an undeniable asset, but neither could he pretend to not feel guilt for dragging a girl barely more than a child into a situation far over her head. Still, the guilt was not enough to send her away, and that selfishness brought more guilt.

As they neared the grove Rhys suddenly felt as though a weight pressed down on him, his feet refusing to take him any further. His hands trembled slightly, patting at his pockets for the various vials of poisons resting within. Suddenly, Rhys felt a hand rest on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Are you afraid?” His father asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Rhys could not bring himself to answer, but his father seemed to understand, squeezing once more. “Fear is good; it keeps you grounded, keeps you from doing something stupid.” Rhys couldn’t help but feel the sting of the comment. His father moved on quickly, turning to face Rhys and Nina. “Gloves on, then.”

All three withdrew the sturdy leather gloves from their pockets, pulling them on and stretching out their fingers. The idea had been Rhys’ father’s, one Rhys would never have thought of himself. The small assurance it provided was something, though not enough to fully sooth Rhys’ fears. “We stick to the plan,” his father began. “Do what you have to do, but this is not the time for heroics or vigilante justice. Are we in agreement?” Rhys knew the remark to be aimed at him, but for once he and his father were in agreement. With a nod, the three of them took their final steps in silence and entered the grove.

The crowd that waited them was smaller than Rhys had expected. Two tall men – one Novarian and one Etrenian from their appearance – stood at the other side of the clearing, flanked on each side by an Etrenian woman. All four dressed in black and holding a lit torch, all four stood in silence as Rhys and his father came to a halt, Nina standing close behind. It was strange observing the ring mages in such a state, knowing them for what they were. Barely more than lifelike statues in composure, faces unreadable as they watched Rhys with little interest.

“You brought your father,” the Novarian said blandly. His eyes shifted from Rhys to his father to his right. Those eyes shifted once more, staring through the small gap between the two men to Nina lurking behind. “And another.”

“You said to be here, and I am. You didn’t give further instruction,” Rhys replied. He tried to calm his voice, to stay cool and steady, yet a hint of his rage seeped through, his words coming out with a biting edge. He could feel his father’s eyes on him in warning.

“No matter; it’s not important,” said the Novarian. With one glance to his companion the two men nodded, the second turning to the woman on his right and murmuring some instruction Rhys could not hear. As the woman disappeared into the trees the Novarian once more turned toward Rhys, the man’s expression as empty as ever. “Shall we proceed?”

There came a rustling from the darkness followed by strange muffled sounds, growing ever closer as several figures emerged from the darkness of the trees into the moonlit clearing. Of the three figures standing in a row, with his light features and thin stature, the one on the left was a face Rhys had not forgot. Tristan stared at Rhys with that same cold, bored look as the others. On the right stood a stout dark haired man, somehow appearing even more apathetic than the others. Between the two, held tightly in their grasp with bound hands and a gagged mouth, was Anja.

The world spun beneath Rhys’ feet, his heart beating frantically in his chest as he started in open shock at his sister. No. Rhys repeated that word again and again to himself, the only word he seemed to remember. This was not how it was supposed to happen. There had been no reason for the mages to bring Anja, not when the possibility of having both the Marinon children in their grasp was there for the taking. The king would never turn down such an opportunity to strike such a killing blow to the Marinons. It was simply not possible. Yet, as Rhys stared at Anja, he could not deny what lie before him. Her elaborate midnight gown from the night before was tattered beyond repair, the sleeves on both arms hanging by shredded threads, the skirt’s hems dirtied and torn. Anja’s dark hair hung in a tangled mess about a bruised face, her bottom lip split and dried blood coated beneath her nose. There was no reason for mages, who could inflict pain with no more than a look, to use physical violence. Even with the mage’s excruciating torture, even when vastly outnumbered, Anja had fought tooth and nail, had forced the mages to fight back. Of course she had. But Rhys’ gaze gravitated towards different wounds. The right half of her head was matted with blood, and a strange scrape – like skin rubbed against stone – scarred her forehead. With a sinking feeling, Rhys knew exactly what had caused those wounds, for they had not been at the hands of any mage. He knew them well, still bearing the marks of their infliction in the king’s prison those months ago. Yet Rhys had been tortured for days at the onset of his self-inflicted wounds, not to mention the prior weeks of magic used against him. Anja had been gone only a day. To what lengths had the mages gone to break her?

Beside him, Rhys’ father stood as still as the mages, his face betraying the shock Rhys felt. None of them had expected the mages to follow through on their word. Rhys glanced quickly behind, noting Nina’s narrowed eyes, a look of intense conversation on her face. What did she hear? Soon enough her expression slackened and she took a step forward, leaning to whisper in Rhys’ ear. “They’re trying to block me out, so I’m only getting snippets here and there. They want you desperately, that much I can tell you. It’s all they’re thinking about.”

“Anja. Tell me what Anja’s thinking.”

Nina’s face screwed up once more but she cursed softly, shaking her head. “I can barely get anything from her either – one of them is shielding her mind. Most mages are shit at blocking out their thoughts so completely – they must have a mage like me among them.”

“Can’t you get anything from her? Anything at all?” Rhys could hear the desperation in his voice but could do little about it, any attempt to control his emotions long abandoned.

“She’s scared,” Nina whispered. “She wants to go home.”

With those few words Rhys saw his father’s expression morph from one of shock and fear to utter outrage, burning so hot even Rhys had to avert his eyes. All three of them turned back towards the mages, having waited expectantly, unmoved but for the two who held Anja struggling against her attempts to break free of her captors. “So,” the Novarian man began, extending a hand out toward Rhys, “since you’re here, why don’t we proceed with the exchange.”

“How am I to trust that you’d let Anja go? You have us both, isn’t that what your master wants?” Rhys practically yelled the words, though the mages did not so much as flinch.

“Our instructions are clear. We are to procure you, not your sister. She is simply collateral at this point. Once we have you, she is free to go.”

Rhys did not believe the man’s words for a second, even if he spoke them so simply and believably. “If you didn’t want her then why did you kidnap her at the festival? We weren’t together at the time, so it’s not like she was your backup option. This was premeditated.”

If irritation was an emotion these mages were capable of feeling, Rhys could have sworn he saw it on the Novarian man’s face. “Procuring you both was a best-case scenario. As of this moment, though, you are our concern, not her. However, if you do not wish to go through with this…” The Novarian glanced at Tristan. Rhys saw the glint of the knife as it was pulled from its scabbard. Tristan wasted no time, placing it firmly at the base of Anja’s neck, watching and waiting for a command. Despite himself, Rhys took a step forward, his hand held out. For the first time, Rhys saw the Novarian smile – if a slight turn up of a lip could be considered one. “That’s what I thought. Well, perhaps you need some further encouragement from your sister?”

Tristan never removed the knife from Anja’s neck, instead allowing his stout companion to reach up and pull the cloth from Anja’s mouth. Though Rhys did not doubt the mages knew precisely what would happen, the first sound to reach their ears with Anja no longer gagged was a long string of profanities. She struggled against her restraints to no avail, staring straight at Rhys with wild eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare do it! I swear to all the Gods, Rhys, if you fucking pull some heroic stunt I will-” Anja’s words were muffled, the cloth shoved forcefully back in her mouth.

“That’s enough of that,” said the Novarian, ignoring the muffled noises from Anja that persisted. “We gave you a day, Lord Rhys. Your time is up. It’s time to make your choice.”

‘Stick to the plan’ had been the motto, and for once it was one Rhys had intended to follow. But there was no plan, not with Anja standing directly before him. To give himself up was unthinkable, yet to let Anja die before him was a fate unimaginably worse. There was no right choice, no simple action that would make everything right. Rhys reached for his dagger once more, letting his fingers run against the hilt. He’d come for a fight, and now it seemed as though he might be getting one rather different than expected. With his heart racing, and every nerve on edge, Rhys took a deep breath and took a step forward.

A hand gripped Rhys’ arm before he could move more than one stride, the fingers digging in. Rhys turned to meet his father’s panicked expression, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. “What are you doing?” He gasped, looking Rhys up and down. “What did I say? What was the understanding?”

“Father - ”

“Don’t you dare do this, Rhys. Don’t. Please.” With each word the grip on Rhys’ arm grew tighter, impossible to pull away from without ripping forcefully away.

Rhys peered toward the mages, seeing all six waiting calmly and expectantly. Turning back toward his father, Rhys looked him square in the eye, unflinching. “Trust me.”

His father’s head shook, his eyes hard. “I can’t let you do this, Rhys.”

“Father, for once in your life please just trust me. Please. Trust me. Let me go.” Rhys could see a wavering in his father’s resolve. He grabbed at it, resting his hand gently over his father’s. “Let me go.”

It was not immediate, but slowly, one finger at a time. Rhys felt the grip on his arm slacken, and soon his father withdrew entirely, stepping back as he watched Rhys with fear. Now free, Rhys mouthed thank you, facing the mages once more. As he began to slowly approach the Novarian gave a nod, and the stout man stepped back from Anja, allowing Tristan alone to escort Anja forward. They moved as slowly as Rhys, and the time it took for both to cross the small distance to the middle of the grove felt like an eternity, Rhys hearing his hearbeat in his ears, loud and frantic. When they stood only feet apart Tristan let his hand fall from Anja’s back, Anja now standing free before Rhys. When they each took another step, nearly passing each other, Rhys whispered Anja’s name. As her head turned, her hair falling behind her shoulder, Rhys smiled. Anja did not smile back, clearly livid behind her wild eyes. But Rhys did not care. He took one last step, closing the small gap between them, and plunged his dagger into her side.

All Rhys heard in the pandemonium that followed was his father’s scream, for the second Rhys withdrew his blade the mages descended. He was lucky he’d thought ahead, having already opened the small vial in his pocket as he’d walked toward the mages. He turned the vial upside down, letting its contents spill over his gloved hand and letting the empty vial fall to the ground. Tristan was there first, but Rhys dodged his messy punch easily and sweeping his knife out in an arch around him. Tristan took a step back, and in man’s brief misstep Rhys lunged. He grabbed Tristan by the throat, saying a silent apology to Venya before throwing him to the ground. Rhys paid no mind to Tristan, for at that moment he heard another mage run for him, narrowly avoiding a hit. This time it was one of the Etrenian women, a knife brandished in her hand and her eyes glued to the spot on his chest where she knew the blood amulet to be. As Rhys lunged forward, aiming low for the stomach, the woman parried away his dagger, her free hand landing a punch to Rhys’ face that had him stumbling in pain. This woman was no amateur, wasting no time to come at Rhys again as he fumbled to find his bearings. Just as her fist came toward Rhys once more she let out a piercing scream, dropping to her knees and curling into a ball on the ground. Rhys looked around, finding Nina standing not fifteen feet away, her eyes practically bulging out of her head. “Move, you idiot!”

Rhys was too slow. Two men barreled into him from behind, knocking him to the ground and pinning him with all their weight as one frantically grabbed for the amulet. Dirt and grass smeared across his cheek as the larger man held his head to the ground. Rhys threw all his strength into the men, but his thrashings came out as no more than small jerks, hardly moving the men an inch. A sudden blinding pain radiated throughout his abdomen. He tasted blood, piercing the inside of his cheeks as he clenched his teeth through the pain. “Nina!” He screamed, though his voice was muffled by one man’s head. Instead of a response, Rhys heard a pained gasp, and from the edge of his vision he watched Nina struggle to stay standing, the heel of her hand digging into her temple as she struggled against some unseen force. As her cries grew louder she did not so much as look Rhys way, her eyes now pressed shut. The panic Rhys had subdued until then quickly burst free. Rhys had nothing - no weapons, no leverage, not even his sight as he stared at the ground. Nothing.

Without warning a great weight fell on Rhys’ back, knocking the wind from him. He tried to gasp, yearning for air, but his chest could not move. It was then that he felt warm blood – an unmistakable feeling – trickle down his back. With a sudden revelation, Rhys moved his right hand, finding it no longer constrained as he’d thought. He reached blindly for his dagger, the feel of its metal like the breath of life. The movement was quick, using the last of Rhys’ energy to force his body to turn against the weight holding it just enough to free his full arm and send the dagger plunging into the second man’s neck.

Rhys gulped in air, rolling out from under the weight of the men and laying flat on the ground, staring up at the stars. He should get up – he needed to get up – but there was nothing left in him. Each deep breath sent a ripple of pain through his body. Hands shaking, he prodded at his side, his fingers coming away coated in fresh blood - a stab wound.

His father came rushing towards him, dropping to his knees at Rhys' side. He carefully lifted the hem of Rhys' shirt, inhaling sharply at the sight of the wound. "Can you move? We need to get you out of here." He asked, prodding about the edges of the wound, eliciting a yelp of pain from Rhys.

"No," said Rhys breathlessly. He lifted his head, just enough to peer about the clearing. Two dead men lay inches to Rhys' side, one with Rhys' knife sticking out of his throat. Two others lay near each other unmoving, though Rhys could not see their wounds. Two more - Tristan and the tall Novarian - lay on the ground, but Rhys could see at a distance, even in the darkness, that they were not dead. They twitched slightly, the poison slowly working its way through their body, a slow and agonizing death awaiting them. Finally, curled in a ball on the ground, gripping at her side, was the woman dressed in Anja's clothes.

"How did you know?" His father asked, following Rhys' gaze toward the woman. She was remarkably similar to Anja's appearance in height and build, with equally dark, long hair framing her face. But her skin was slightly too dark and her face all wrong, the illusion having dissipated some time after she fell to the ground. He had believed the lie - his father had too. That he had not suspected, and that the woman had played her part so convincingly, sent a chill down his spine.

"When she turned her head toward me as we were passing her hair moved, showing her neck. She was missing the birthmark by her collarbone. Whoever made the disguise must not have noticed - Anja's hair must have covered it. I doubt they thought we'd ever be close enough to notice such a thing anyway. But when I saw, I knew."

There was an uncomfortable pause following Rhys' words, his father's face slowly morphing as he understood. "You didn't know before you started walking toward them, did you?"

Rhys could not meet his father's eye. He looked straight up at the sky, at the thousands of stars that dotted the night. He did not need to answer; his father knew the answer. Rhys heard him sigh with frustration, but he knew there would be no lecture, not under the conditions.

"Go to the others. Get Anja," said Rhys.

"No." His father shook his head fervently. "I can't leave you alone like this."

"It's ok." Rhys tried to smile, but the pain that suddenly radiated from his wound instead forced a gasp. Rhys' father's eyes widened with concern, but Rhys brushed it off, shaking his head. "I have Nina; she can help. We'll take care of the ones still alive and get to safety. I'll meet you back at home." Though his father did not seem convinced, Rhys could see him considering the proposition, even if such consideration also brought with it guilt. "Please. Go. I'll be ok."

With a sigh, Rhys' father nodded, pressing a hand to Rhys's shoulder. "You will get to safety as soon as possible, do you understand? Do you promise?" Rhys promised, again and again, until finally his father squeezed his shoulder one last time before running off through the trees.

With his father's departure, Nina, stumbled toward Rhys, visibly shaken. She stared off silently at the bodies in the grove, her hands trembling as she hugged her arms around her middle. "They changed your sister - I mean, that woman's - thoughts, too. I couldn't tell it wasn't her. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," said Rhys.

"I can see it now, though. The magic that concealed her was put on by another mage, one who wasn't here. They didn't bring him along, I suppose to make sure any mage you brought wouldn't be able to find out. It's always safer when a mage conceals their own appearance - it's stronger magic, harder to see the seams. But I guess this was the person they had closest to Anja's appearance. It always makes it easier when there's less to change."

Rhys stared at the woman, still alive, still shaking. The disguise was entirely dropped. Suddenly, Anja's annotations from the book popped into his head, that circled passage burned into his memory. If his knife wound had been able to drop the disguise, one out on by another mage...

"Make me not feel my pain."

Nina stared at Rhys as if he'd grown a second head. "Whatever happened to you not wanting magic used on you?"

"I don't care about that right now. Here," Rhys fumbled through the vials in his pocket, placing one into Nina's hand. "Give this to the blonde man. It's the antidote to the poison."

"Are you completely insane?" Nina hissed, staring at the vial with horror. "Do you want him to kill us?"

Rhys shook his head. "It doesn't work that fast. If he's this immobilized now, it won't change that. It will just keep him from dying on us...hopefully."

"I thought we wanted them to die. What are you going on about?"

Rhys looked between the injured mages, his plan quickly taking form in his mind. "I have new plans for them. I think...I think we may be able to save them."

[Mollianne]

Three days. Three days of breakfasts with the du Renes, dinners with the Tremonts, mornings where she woke up more tired than she’d gone to bed despite being quite sure of a full night’s sleep, pounding headaches that refused to leave her, magical artificing, plotting and planning, biding her time. She eyed Catrice across the table, talking quietly to Elissa. She smoothed her daughter’s hair as she spun her a fantasy future of the du Renes triumphing in the war, one filled with riches and power and happiness. Elissa lapped it up, and Catrice smiled and kissed her daughter’s head.

Smile now. I’ve got you, Jessa thought spitefully. She had enough to try, anyway, and for the rest she would just act confident and see what would stick.

Ainesh waved his spoon in Jessa’s face to get her attention. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“I can’t decide what you look more like. You’re either about to murder someone or fall asleep in your porridge.”

“I’ve not been getting much sleep.”

“I know,” he said, making Jessa frown. “I hear you moving around. Sometimes it’s as ‘early’ as midnight, but others it’s one or two in the morning.”

Jessa faltered. She recalled no such thing. “You must be hearing the guards. I’m in bed by ten. I guess the sleep I’m getting is just not very… restful.”

“Unless the guards are inside your room, it’s definitely you. I heard your door open once.”

She would remember that. She joked, “Maybe I was sleepwalking,” but inwardly, she felt a flutter of concern. She was quite sure that she had not been partaking in midnight wanderings. Someone must be coming into her room. But why? The king, or his spies, checking she hadn’t managed to sneak away? She shifted uneasily. The thought that someone was watching her sleep and she hadn’t even awoken had her gut sinking and her mouth turning as dry as ash.

The king entered the room before Ainesh could say more, so he simply through her a sceptical glance. Jessa barely paid any attention, for she had seen the slight spring in the king’s step and his pompous flourish as he sat down. There was no sign of it on his face, so Jessa was unsurprised that Ainesh had returned to shovelling porridge into his mouth without a care, but Jessa knew him. Alrick was positively jovial.

If he hadn’t already received the news that the queen of Novamor had set sail for Kolonis the day before, Jessa might have thought it was something to do with that. Perhaps it was – had the Etrenian army struck in the middle of the night, hoping to catch the Novarians off guard after their queen’s departure?

But then the Etrenian queen spoke, and Jessa knew it was not that. “How are our newest prisoners?”

Jessa held her breath, clenching her spoon until her knuckles went white and her fingernails dug deep crescent moons into her skin. When Alrick looked directly at her, she knew.

No.

“Oh, I do think it’ll take them some time to adjust. The prison cells aren’t up to their usual living standards, I’m sure.”

“Who are the prisoners, father?” Elissa asked. Edmund, too, turned from his porridge in mild interest. Maira simply smiled; she already knew.

“The Tanses.”

Jessa’s heart constricted. She remembered every name she’d given to Alrick. The Tanse family lived a good twenty-five miles east of Ovis. They should have been able to get away. She’d delayed as long as she could; how had they not found safety?

“The whole family?” Elissa dropped her head into her cupped palms. “What crime could they all have committed?”

“Conspiracy, murder, money laundering, treason, where to begin?” He was positively gleeful. If the king had been anyone else, he might have fallen from his chair in his excitement. “Who knows what a Marinon sycophant is capable of?

“They’re allies of the Marinons?” Elissa curled her lip. “But I met Briony Tanse only half a year ago! She seemed nice.”

“They’re all snakes in the grass, Elissa.”

Or they weren’t all evil. Jessa wisely kept her mouth shut. And tried not to think of Briony Tanse.

There was a long silence, too heavy and contemplative for Jessa to believe the subject was done. Nevertheless, she tried to ignore it and resumed her breakfast. She needed to get out of there. She needed to put her plan into action. She needed anything but sitting around alone with her thoughts.

Alrick asked, “Would you like to visit them, Jessa?” She turned her gaze to meet his slowly. His grin was sharp and malicious. “You did, after all, help put them where they are today.”

“What?” Elissa snapped her head to stare at Jessa. Alrick waved her away.

Jessa pressed a hand to her ever-throbbing head. The stress and worry only made it worse. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m not feeling well. I think I should lie down.”

The king’s glare darkened, but Ainesh was there – right on cue – before he could deny her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just having some rather persistent headaches, and I don’t think my restless nights are helping.”

“I’ll take you to the castle healer,” Ainesh declared, already standing and holding an arm out to her.

Alrick scoffed. “I’m sure he’s quite busy and doesn’t need to be bothered with such a minor problem.”

“Regular headaches can be a sign of something worse,” Edmund piped up. His mother raised her eyebrows at him. He shrugged and sank down in his chair. “I’ve been reading some of his books.” If Edmund’s voice caught, everyone chose to ignore it.

“There you go. And I wouldn’t be a very good husband if I ignored this, would I?” He smiled sweetly, and offered Jessa his hand. “Let’s go.”

When they were halfway to the healer’s office, Ainesh seemed unable to contain his thoughts. “I knew you were having some headaches – I’ve seen you wincing or rubbing your head when you think no one’s watching. But… is it really that bad?”

“No, I’m fine,” she lied. Ainesh watched her until they turned the next corner, but he did not press.

“What seems to be the problem today?” the healer asked in greeting when Jessa came through the door. He peered at her. “I trust your neck healed well – or are you having some lingering pains?”

He had begun to stand when Jessa shook her head. She didn’t want an examination. She was here for only one reason. “My neck is very well, thanks to you. No, in fact I’m having trouble sleeping. I was wondering if you might have some concoction or draught…”

“And headaches,” Ainesh added. “Quite persistent ones.”

Jessa sighed. She should have known he would not let it lie. She took a step back as the healer stood. “No, really, I’m quite well.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll check anyway.”

“No!”

Ainesh and the healer stared at her. Jessa swallowed hard. She couldn’t say why, but she knew she could not let the healer examine her. What might he find? Nothing, she told herself, for it was all hidden away behind memory blocks. If Alrick had hired a greater mage posing as a lesser one, they still would not find anything. And yet… that wasn’t the reason. She still didn’t want the man anywhere near her mind. Why? She rubbed her forehead, ignoring the stab of pain that joined her confusion. She didn’t want to think about it. It hurt.

“I’m fine,” she said finally. “I just get headaches when I don’t get enough sleep. All I need is something to help that.”

“I can’t give you anything without an examination, my lady.”

What was more important: her plan, or refusing him? Why didn’t she want him to do this? Why? Her head throbbed with her frustration. Why? A sharp stab shot through her and she couldn’t help but cry out, cradling her head.

“That’s it, I won’t take no for an answer. Lord Ainesh, help me in case she’s difficult.”

But Jessa didn’t argue. With that last rush of pain had come a strange clarity. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for weeks. Her headaches were not normal. Her headaches were… She was lowered into a chair. She could feel her clarity slipping away, the edges blurring even as she tried to focus on it. The pain in her head was too great. What had she been thinking? Something wasn’t right? She couldn’t remember. Listlessly, she let the doctor feel her temples. He forced her eyes open and shone conjured bright light into them as she struggled to look away. She felt a tingling sensation in her mind. And then the doctor had moved away. Jessa had no idea for how long she had sat in the chair.

Ainesh was a few paces away, looking on worriedly. With a weak smile, Jessa rubbed her forehead – the pain had returned to its usual, manageable ache – and said, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” the healer said indignantly, before turning and shaking his head. He started muttering, clearly not meant for Jessa or Ainesh, “There’s something… I don’t…”

He rummaged through a cabinet, pulling out two vials. He handed them to Jessa, who took them numbly. “That one,” he pointed to the clear liquid, “is a sleeping draught. Do not use it every night. Just when you’re really struggling to sleep. And do not overdo it – you need only three droplets.” The tapped the top of the deep brown liquid, but Jessa was not fully paying attention as he explained the dosage to alleviate her headaches. She had got what she had come for.

“You will return in a week.” He turned away, muttering to himself again. He sank into his chair, pulling over a few books, and with a final worried frown in Jessa’s direction, began reading and scribbling furiously. They were dismissed. Jessa couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Back in her room, she pulled the sleeping draught out of her pocket and smiled. The best lies were the ones that were based in truth.

“Jessa.” Ainesh had apparently followed her into her room. He closed the door, his hand still on the handle as he said, “I think you should let my grandmother have a look at you. A proper look, not the few seconds she’s had recently to block your memories and create the pseudo ones.”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you stop saying that?” he burst out. “Why are you dismissing this? Laurita says…”

“Laurita says a lot,” Jessa said bitterly.

“I thought you two had talked about that and worked it out. And it helped, didn’t it? They’re willing to meet this potential king of yours, aren’t they?”

“Well maybe Laurita should talk to me rather than telling anyone who’ll listen that there’s something wrong with me, or that I’m not fit to do this anymore.”

“That’s isn’t what she’s saying! She’s worried about you.”

Jessa shook her head. “I need to…” She rubbed her brow. “I need you to leave. I have a couple of hours to work on the memory stone and I need to be alone.”

“Do you think you’ll get it done?”

“I have to.”

Ainesh sighed and began to head for the door joining their rooms. On his way past, he snatched the medicine for her headache out of her hand. Before she could protest, he said, “I think I’ll take this. I don’t trust you to take it unless I’m watching you do it.”

He left before she could splutter after him that he was being ridiculous. She wasn’t so sure he was wrong.

She went to her door and bolted it before taking her seat at her table and rummaging through her small jewellery box in which she’d hidden the five stones in the hopes that they would blend in. Four of them she placed on the table, leaving the other resting in her palm. Its weight was familiar in her hand, as was the sharp point on its underside. She flipped it over, her finger trailing the single vein that ran across it – the weak point – as if she needed to remember its exact path. She did not; she knew these stones like her own hand by now.

She pushed away her thoughts, all her near-successes and all the failures that had caused them. She could not allow herself to get caught up in the consequences of failure. The only thing she need bring from her previous attempts was the knowledge of what her mistakes were and how to rectify them.

Her magic perked up like a cat at her call. It wanted to rush to her, but by now she knew how to calm it and extract only the sliver she needed. It was easy. Jessa was unsure how she felt about that, but – no, she could not doubt or she would lose it. She pulled her attention to the stone and the vein running along it. She melded the magic to its side – better to fix the defects before storing the magic, Jessa had learned – then pulled forth another stream of magic to test its strength. She started with a gentle brush along the seam, then gripped the stone as she built the intensity to a hard shove. The magic held. She could feel no magic seeping through the join between stone and magical barrier. It was ready.

Gathering a ball of magic, she turned the stone over to avoid the vein and pushed the magic within, overcoming the stone’s natural resistance. After a cursory check that there was no magic seeping out of any undetected defects, Jessa pulled back. Now she must work quickly. She drew her memories forth, wrapping a tiny coil of magic around each of them as Priti had instructed and drilled her on for hours upon hours the day before, and turned the memory-laden magic towards the stone. The coil of magic eagerly honed in on the magic anchored within the stone, so all Jessa had to do was guide it so it did not enter with too much force and shatter the stone. That had been one of her last mistakes.

She held her breath as she felt the memories merge with the magic inside the stone. They swirled and swam together.

Get on with it, she told herself. She had no time to sit around and admire. Pulling a final blanket of magic from deep within her, she wrapped it entirely around the stone. Once it was settled, she imagined it as an iron casing around the stone, locking away all the magic but for a small hole for access to the memories inside.

But it was still tethered to her. She breathed in deeply. This was it. The hardest step. The one she had been unable to overcome. She had never wanted her magic, but the thought of that ball of excited energy – trusting her, coming so quickly to her call and pliable to her needs – cut off from her forever had her hesitating. She clasped her hand around the stone, feeling the warmth of her magic. Did it know what she would do? Of course it didn’t; magic wasn’t sentient. It just felt like it sometimes, with its quirks and how it would sometimes resist her, with the way it naturally protected her without her even realising.

There was an invisible thread connecting her and the magic within the stone. She tugged at it gently, hoping the magic would not notice. But, of course, it did, and it railed against the stone. Her iron-like barrier held. She pulled harder, gasping out as she felt a pinprick of pain deep within her body. The thread stretched taut, straining, at its breaking point. Jessa was sweating, biting her lip to stop crying out in pain. The pinprick sunk deeper into her, tearing into her. She closed her eyes, shaking. She was slipping away. She was going to fail, here, again.

No. She could bear this pain. She bore her headaches, did she not? She forced her eyes open, concentrating on the stone, ignoring the ripping pain that threatened to break her. With her free hand, she gripped the arm of her chair until her knuckles were white and aching. Focus on that pain – manageable, real.

Break the tether. Now, before it hurts too much. With a final yank, she felt – and seemed to hear – the snap. She fell back against her chair. It was gone. She was blind. The world was wrong. She was wrong. Emptier. She was crying before she even realised it. Part of her was gone.

But she wasn’t blind, not really. She opened her eyes, finding a blurred, muted world. But it wasn’t really. She was just drifting away. She gripped the arms of the chair, trying to anchor herself. She was still here. She was not gone. It was only a tiny ball of magic, not even a teaspoon.

Then she realised that if she was holding the chair with both hands that she was no longer holding the stone. The world shuddered back into clarity as she flung herself forward, looking around wildly. Her heart pounded – she was still real. And the stone was there, lying on the desk where it must have fallen. Perfectly intact.

She had done it.

…Had she done it? She picked it up gingerly, twirling it through her fingers. Her heart squeezed in longing, for she could not sense the magic within. Her magic, no longer hers. But had it worked?

She fumbled for the white speckle on the stone’s surface where she had made her deliberate defect. She ran her finger across it, feeling a small spark of energy. Holding her breath, Jessa pressed her finger fully against the speck. She saw a flash of a dark cell appear in her mind before she broke the connection in surprise. Her blood thrummed and her fingers trembled with adrenaline, but she needed to see more. Shaking her hands to calm herself, she pressed her finger once more against the stone. The memories inside appeared in her mind, one after the other, a series of moving pictures, along with a definite sense that what she saw was real and not fiction. She could only hope that was a product of the stone’s magic and not her own knowledge of their veracity. She needed the memories to be believed.

Once the memories began to repeat, she pulled away. Excitement bubbled in her throat and she had called for Ainesh before she had fully realised. She scrambled out of her seat and rushed to their adjoining door, stone in hand, and was about to knock when Ainesh did it for her. She pulled the door open and held the stone out in her palm.

He looked at it, then up at her, then back down. “I take it from your expression that you did it?”

“Well, it worked for me.”

“Then it works for everyone. It’s not your magic anymore.” Ainesh’s smile faltered when he saw the smile drop off Jessa’s face, replaced by discomfort. She remembered her pain, that creeping emptiness that her happiness had concealed. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“You can say that again.” Jessa rubbed her forehead, unsure if she should voice what was racing through her mind. “I… thought I’d be happy to be parted from my magic. And… to some extent, I guess I do. But mostly I just feel off-kilter. Like I’m broken.”

“Your magic is you, Jessa, that’s why you can’t like that it’s gone,” Ainesh said gently. “You’ve lost part of yourself. I mean, it’ll regenerate, but it’s an emotional thing. But, it also hurts like a bitch, so that makes it worse.”

Jessa pulled the stone back, curling her fingers around it. “I didn’t think it would work. I needed it to, but every other magic I’ve tried has seemed almost impossible. I’ve always had to… adjust it to something simpler.”

Ainesh waved a dismissive hand. “So you don’t excel at mind magic like my grandmother and sister. I don’t either. Artificing takes precision and patience, and a lot of sitting around studying the best material to use. Your scholarly side is your greatest asset here. I don’t really have the patience – I can do it if I put my mind to it, I guess, but with more practise you’ll far exceed my abilities.”

Jessa smiled. The thought of going through that pain again was unnerving, but she was… excited too. Pain was a small price to pay. Magical objects were a way to level the playing field, allowing non-mages to use her discarded power. She did not want or need it all. And the work was satisfying, she could not deny. Like reading a book, newly discovered from the preserved ruins of a long-dead civilisation, an learning. Like walking through those ancient ruins – Jessa recalled the ancient city near Jasrah, her excitement, losing track of time as she traced the runes etched into the stone.

Not just satisfying – thrilling.

She almost hated herself for thinking such a thing of magic. Almost.

“How much time do I have left?” She asked, glancing at the clock. An hour. “There are still four to do. I’ll call for you when I’m done?”

Ainesh nodded and left, parting with the words, “I knew you could do it.” Jessa let herself believe it.

Knowing what to do, Jessa surprised herself by making quick work of the other stones. Each one left her weaker and shaking, the hole within her widening, but she pushed the feelings away. Getting it done was more important. Everything rode on this success. The emptiness would pass, perhaps quickly as it battled with her pride. She could do this. The proof was there, in the five stones resting on the table, filled with her memories.

She stared at them for a moment longer. Then, Jessa stood and headed for the wardrobe, fetching the stack of envelopes she had hidden under her various undergarments. She wandered back to her desk as she rifled through the stack, pulling out the thinnest five. Back at her desk, she dropped a stone in each, careful to avoid creasing the letter within, and sealed them with wax. Then, she slotted those and a series of other letters inside the biggest envelopes.

Five letters. Five chances.

She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes until Laurita arrived. She knocked on Ainesh’s door. It practically opened under her hand. She thrust the letters into his open hands.

“Don’t op-”

“Jessa, I can read,” Ainesh said. Jessa twisted her lips sheepishly.

“And you know who to give them to?”

“Again, I can read.”

“The servants-”

“I’ll make sure the right people get them.” He rested a hand on her arm. “Stop worrying. I've got this under control.”

She nodded. Now that she had nothing to do but wait, her nerves thrummed. This was happening. She glanced at the clock again. Barely a minute had passed.

Then another. And another. Ainesh ducked back into his room to hide the letters. Another minute. Jessa sat on her bed and then immediately stood and began to pace. She should have asked Laurita to come sooner.

“Gods, you’re making me nervous.” Ainesh took hold of her shoulders, forcing her to stop. “You’ve planned this down to the second. You couldn’t do anything sooner anyway.”

She knew that, but it didn’t stop her shaking Ainesh off to resume her pacing.

Finally – right on time, more like – there was a knock at the door. Jessa pulled it open, revealing two female servants. One of them hugged an empty laundry hamper to their chest, and the other a bundle of firewood. Jessa ushered them inside. In the time it took her to close the door and turn around, Laurita had replaced the servant with the firewood. The other girl had become shorter and paler – so pale Jessa could see her veins starkly spidering out beyond her short-sleeved servants’ tunic. She eyed Jessa and Ainesh nervously.

“Can we trust her?”

“I’m right here!” she burst out, her voice squeaky and indignant. She bowed her head, murmuring an apology.

Laurita rolled her eyes at Jessa. “Yes. She’s one of Nayall’s.”

Ainesh’s gaze snapped to her, speculation and curiosity shining in his eyes. “Oh, well, we have quite a lot to talk about. Off you two go; we’ll be quite alright.”

Laurita came over to Jessa, sliding the blood ring off her finger as she looked at her expectantly. “Did you make the stones?”

“Yes.”

“You did?”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Jessa snapped, yanking her hand away. She clasped her hands together in an attempt to muffle the tingling sensation in her bare ring finger. It was getting harder and harder to part from the ring.

“I’m not,” Laurita hissed in exasperation. “Jes-”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Laurita stared at her, jaw clenched, before sighing. Within a few minutes, Laurita morphed back into the servant she had been only minutes ago, and Jessa became the servant with the laundry hamper. As she dressed in the servant’s red tunic, she and Laurita went over the plan. She picked up the now-full hamper. “Get the-”

“Got it.” Laurita’s voice was sharp with thinly veiled frustration. Jessa didn't have time to care.

“Good luck,” Ainesh said, and then she and Laurita were in the hallway and heading their separate ways.

Please be in there, please be in there, Jessa thought to herself as she approached the laundry. Her entire plan hinged on this information being correct. She took a deep breath outside the door, and pushed it open.

The room was a flurry of activity. Clothes scrubbed themselves against the washboard, splashing in and out of the soapy water in a rhythmic dance. Two lesser mages surveyed the activity, levitating away clothes that were cleaned and replacing it with the next in a smooth motion. In another corner where the floor was slick, shiny grates, the clothes spun in the air, dancing to dry themselves. And at the back of the room, holding out a dress spoiled by running lines of red dye and shouting at the poor servant responsible, was Hilda Wessett. Catrice’s handmaiden.

“Put ‘em over there,” one of the lesser mages called out to her, pointing to a pile of unwashed clothes in the corner. Jessa dumped her hamper as instructed and, bracing herself, headed towards the back of the room. She hung back, watching as Hilda flung the ruined dress over the younger’s girl’s arm, ignoring her frantic apologies.

“Get it done.” Her voice was as hard as her ghostly grey eyes. The girl cowered, nodding so fast she would hurt her neck, but Hilda had already turned away to collect the remaining folded – perfect – clothes. This was how Catrice’s handmaiden reacted to a single mistake? Like mistress, like maid.

Hilda was almost at the door when Jessa hurried to catch up with her. “That was amazing, Miss,” she gushed, stopping close to the other woman and looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes. Hilda looked down her nose and took a deliberate step back.

“I’m busy,” she said snootily, turning away. Jessa was sure that was true. The woman’s hair was falling out of its messy bun, and she could see the deep bags under Hilda’s eyes. Good.

“But miss!” Jessa skipped to catch up with her, then matched her stride. “I need your help.”

“Who even are you?” Hilda asked. She did not even look Jessa’s way. They passed another castle servant, scuffing their shoes as they walked. Hilda barked at the man to look smart and get on with his duties. He straightened nervously and hurried on his way.

“I’m one of Lady Catterley’s maids, ma’am,” she said, folding her hands around her back. “Ella.”

Hilda hummed in disapproval. Jessa knew from the other servants that the Catterleys’ early arrival – skipping the Spring Procession – was a point of contention amongst them. More work, far sooner than they had anticipated. And the Catterleys were work.

“I suppose you need me to shout at one of the maids that the curtains in the sitting room were not concertinaed in the proper way again?”

Jessa ducked her head in apology. “The food this time, ma’am. Lady Catterley is partial to a particular kind of soup – avaber-”

“Avaberry, yes.” Hilda curled her lip. “I cannot fathom why dessert soups are so popular in Sorone.”

“They’re really quite delicious,” Jessa lied. “Have you ever tried one?”

“No,” Hilda said, her tone indicating that line of questioning was over. “What is the problem?”

She had already made two lefts to head towards the kitchen. Whatever Hilda’s original plan had been, she was going to the kitchen now. “They’re saying that soaking the avaberries in red wine and sugar is a waste of resources.”

“Well, it is. Those berries are already sickly sweet as it is. We’re in the middle of the war, girl.”

“I know that. But Lady Catterley will not care. Everything must be done right. She blame us, and she’s…” Jessa broke off. She knew exactly how Catterley treated her servants. “She’ll blame the castle servants, and probably go to the queen.”

“My mistress will not tolerate such frivolity.”

Jessa widened her eyes as if she had only just realised to which servant she spoke. “Oh…” She bowed her head. “Then why did you shout at the maids about the curtains? That was equally silly but you did it. Lady Catterley scares you as much as she does the rest of us.”

Hilda sighed gustily, but from the flicker in her eyes Jessa knew she was right. “Well, come on then. We’re already here.” She pushed open the door to the kitchen. A wave of heat from the fires around the room blasted Jessa’s face. In the centre of the room, Mahlia, Fran and Laurita – another of Catterley’s “maids” – were arguing. Laurita had two bowls in her hand. One contained the fresh, bright purple avaberries. The other contained a small handful of the round berries coated with a splash of the sugary red wine concoction.

“It must be this,” Laurita insisted, holding out the second bowl.

“We cannot spare it,” Mahlia said gently.

“Please!”

“Here,” Hilda said, gesturing for Laurita to hold the bowls out towards her “Has Lady Catterley ever tried this soup without the soaked berries? I doubt she will know the difference.”

She popped one of the fresh berries into her mouth, wincing as the burst of sweetness overpowered her senses. Nevertheless, she swallowed it with little complaint. Then she turned to the second bowl, her hand hovering over it. With a deep breath, Hilda picked out of the soaked berries, shaking off the excess wine, and practically threw it in her mouth. Her reaction was instant – nose screwing up, lips turning down, shuddering.

“They’re both as vile as the other,” Hilda declared. “You did not answer my question.”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Jessa said quietly.

Hilda sighed. “Just this once, but leave it at the wine and sugar. We cannot spare all the superfluous ingredients that go into that marinade. Tell her there are no avaberries left after this. They are a winter berry, after all.” She eyed the berries with suspicion. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-” A deep yawn cut her off. Hilda pressed a hand to her forehead, blinking slowly. Shaking her head, she continued, “I have work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fran and Mahlia said in unison.

Laurita watched the woman as she headed for the door, while Jessa mouthed “Thank you.”

“For wasting food?” Fran hissed. “Or putting our necks on the line for you?” Jessa glanced over her shoulder but Hilda was thankfully out of earshot, fumbling to open the kitchen door.

“Hush, Fran,” Mahlia said sternly. “Lady Catterley demanded the soup yesterday. We just changed our mind about makin’ it. And if it brings ‘er,” she lowered her voice as she nodded towards the door, “and ‘er mistress down a peg or two, I’d say it’s not a waste.” To Jessa and Laurita she added, “You’d better go. She’s gone.”

Jessa left first, sure Laurita would be along in a moment. She glanced left and then right, relieved to see Hilda slumped against the wall towards the end of the corridor. She ran to her side. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

“Oh,” Hilda looked around wildly, her eyes half-lidded. “You.”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m quite alright. It seems some late night have… caught up with me…” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “That’s all.”

Hilda staggered to her feet, shuffled a few steps, and fell against the wall again. Laurita had appeared by then, and said gently, “You should rest, ma’am. We can take over your duties.”

“Oh, no,” she said, swiping away the hands they offered to help her to her feet. But it was not long before she could not argue. Jessa and Laurita stood either side of her, shuffling as quickly as they could towards Hilda’s room which luckily was not far. They came across no one on their way; Jessa silently thanked Mahlia again.

Hilda fell into her bed, snuggling up and immediately beginning to snore. Jessa exchanged a glance with Laurita. “How much did you give her? The doctor said three drops.”

“Three drops to help you sleep, Jessa, not put you to sleep fast. I… improvised.”

“We could have hurt her!” Jessa forced her voice into a low hiss. “What if she doesn’t wake up in a few hours?”

“The girl I brought is a healer, Jessa. We’ll check on her once you’re done.”

With a sigh, Jessa slowly nodded. She went to the armoire, fetching a pristine copy of Hilda’s servant garb and dressed quickly. It hung off her in all the wrong places, the small servant she posed as at odds with Hilda’s much taller, larger frame. The feeling of being swallowed by fabric was gone soon enough, the material clinging to her body as Laurita worked her magic. Jessa glanced in the small mirror hanging precariously on the wall. It was more than a little strange not only to see Hilda’s face where hers should be, but to see the real woman snoring away in the reflection. Laurita twisted her around then, surveying her work. “Perfect.”

“Stay close to me,” Jessa advised, then tiptoed over to the real Hilda. Careful not to wake her – though with that much sleeping draught in her system, there was little chance of it – Jessa turned her gently to fish through her pockets for her set of keys. The jangled loudly as Jessa pulled them out, making her wince. She pocketed them, and then she glanced around the room. She was alone.

Both unsure how long the sleeping draught and Jessa’s resistance to her separation from the ring would hold, Jessa strode out of the room and headed directly for the royal family’s quarters. She had observed Hilda’s manner over the last couple of days, and now she held her head high and lengthened her gait – a purposeful walk. The servants she passed did not bat an eye. With each corner she turned, she held her breath in case it revealed any of the royal family, but her luck and information held true. The king, queen and crown princess were at a council meeting, and Ainesh’s uncle Nathaniel had promised to delay them just in case Jessa’s timings were flawed. But she was right on time.

The queen’s chambers were at the end of a grand, silent hallway. Guards lined the walls and the thick oak door. Again, none even stirred at her presence. Hilda was the only servant who could come this way alone without question. All others must be accompanied by Hilda or an official seal. Once she reached the door, she pulled out the key ring. There were three keys on it, and with a steadying breath at knowing the guards were watching, Jessa selected the most likely candidate – a rather ostentatiously ornate brass monstrosity. Nodding at the guard, she slid it into the lock and turned. With a click – and a silent thank you to fate – Jessa was inside. She made sure to let the door close very slowly behind her, and then she surveyed the room.

She had been in this sitting room once before, when Edmund had surprised Jessa by speaking up against Elissa’s cruelty towards her. He had never looked more like his twin. Jessa pushed the thoughts aside, heading for one of the doors leading off from the main parlour. She checked the next two before she found Catrice’s bedchamber. By her calculations, she had half an hour before the queen would return. It was not much, but perhaps she might find something to strengthen her claims.

The half an hour came and went with nothing to show for it. Jessa huffed in frustration, closing the top drawer of Catrice’s largest dresser with more force than she intended. She curled her hand into a fist, resting her head against the wall. It didn’t matter. This had been a shot in the dark, a last-minute gamble. She had not really expected to find anything. What she had already would do.

She heard noises in the main parlour, and hurried to the bed where she made a show of fluffing the pillows. The queen entered only moments later, stopping in her tracks. “Hilda?”

The door closed with a snick behind her, and then there was the unmistakeable sound of the lock clicking into place. Catrice swivelled around, but no one was there. She rattled the doorknob but it did not budge. “What is the meaning of this?”

Jessa swallowed her smile at the panic hovering in the queen’s voice. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll become clear,” she said in her own voice. “Your Majesty.”

The queen frowned, realising it was not Hilda’s voice but unable to reconcile how that could be or whose voice it was. Nevertheless, she opened her mouth. Jessa preempted her. “Now.”

Catrice cried out for her guards, but no sound reached Jessa’s ears. Jessa smiled. The queen took a step forward, calling out again before she turned on Jessa, her mouth moving too quickly for Jessa to read her lips. She did not look scared or bewildered. Just angry.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Jessa said mildly, undoubtedly fanning the flames. She flicked her gaze towards the armchair in the room. “I suggest you sit down.”

The queen threw her a sardonic glare and held her ground. It was then that she realised she had not told Laurita to drop her disguise. She nodded twice, and after a moment, her disguise melted away as Jessa’s body narrowed and shortened to its usual stature. Jessa rolled her shoulders and took a step forward, taking care not to trip over the extra material of Hilda’s dress.

The queen was staring. Never before had Jessa seen such open shock on that hated face. “As I said, you might want to sit down.”

At length, the queen stepped back towards the chair. Once she was seated, Jessa said, “Now, my friend is going to widen the muffling field around you to cover this room. I will hear everything you say, but I’m afraid your guards will be as clueless as they are now. Just a precaution.”

Jessa did not know what she expected Catrice to say first, but when the magic was lifted and the queen remained cool and calm, Jessa knew she should have thought nothing else. The queen had recovered from her momentary loss of control.

She said coolly, “You could have just sent a note requesting to speak to me.”

Jessa almost laughed. “We both know you would never have agreed to that. And, I confess, it’s rather better for me that you did not have time to prepare.” Jessa leaned against the bedpost. “Let’s not beat around the bush. What is the nature of your relationship with Lord Graeme Janes.”

Catrice did not do so much as blink. How did they all do this?

“He is the widower of the woman who killed my son.”

“Really.” She hugged the bedpost. “Is that really all he is? Huh. Maybe I’m wrong then, but I’d not expect such a man to be exchanging letters with you.”

Digging into her pocket, Jessa pulled out the dried chrysanthemum she had pilfered from Larend two days before. It didn’t matter that it was not one Catrice had received from Graeme. The effect was the same. Catrice stared at the flower in Jessa’s palm. Then, so fast that Jessa only saw it because she was looking for it, Catrice flicked a glance over to the dressing table behind Jessa. Her letters from Graeme?

Yet Catrice’s expression remained unconcerned, and she did not slip up with her words either. Jessa had never ever expected this to be easy. “What are you even showing me, stupid child?”

“I hear it’s Graeme Janes’ favourite flower,” she said speculatively. “Yours too, I’d wager. I’ve seen you wear them in your hair at many of the balls. You wore one on my wedding day. Yours and Graeme’s little secret, your small way of showing the truth to the world, if only someone was paying the proper attention.”

Jessa threw her a wry smile. “You must love him, to risk everything. Most women in your position would have dalliances with their servants. But you, you think they’re beneath you. So, do you love him?”

“I have never and would never be involved with such a man. I barely knew him.”

“Come now, if you’re going to lie you’d best make it believable. You were friends as children, and probably beyond. The Janes family visited Tremerre often, or so I hear. I very much doubt such an influential family did not run in the same circle as yours.”

Catrice scoffed, crossing her legs. Defensive. “Knowing each other as children does not make us lovers as adults. I know you have little experience with such matters, but this really is a stretch.”

“I wonder if the king would think so…”

“What is the purpose of this, girl? To frighten me, to threaten me with running to Alrick about something you can’t even say is true? Is this your attempt at blackmail?” Catrice laughed, her voice turning mocking, “Do I have something you need? Did you really think this would work?”

“It was worth a try,” Jessa said, shrugging. She tapped on the bedpost, as if she was at a loss. Then, bowing her head thoughtfully, she murmured, “Ritanyi…”

Jessa did not move her head, but she watched Catrice straighten out of the corner of her eyes. It was barely noticeable, but she saw the queen’s jaw tighten. And was it Jessa imagination, but had Catrice gone a little paler?

"If you will speak, say it so I can hear.” There was no denying the tautness of her voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just an Antascian word. Ritanyi. I believe it roughly translates into Etrenian as ‘blood born’.” Jessa tilted her head. “But it looks like you already knew that.”

“I learned Antascian as a child.” She waved her hand dismissively, but Jessa was not fooled. “What of it?”

“I’m quite sure you didn’t learn a word like that. I doubt it would come up too much in conversation. Unless, of course, you were soliciting the help of the man who goes by that alias.”

Catrice said nothing.

“Now, I can’t say I know exactly when Graeme and this ‘Ritanyi’ exchanged their letters, but it does seem mighty coincidental that I found one such letter hidden in the same book that captured Harris’,” her voice still caught on his name, “imagination enough that he was determined to visit Antascia as soon as he was old enough. The book Graeme Janes had given him, according to Edmund. It seems Graeme Janes was quite desperate for Harris to visit the country, presumably for that fresh blood sample.”

Catrice’s face went as pale as her hair. Nothing had prepared her for Jessa knowing this much. It was one thing to accuse her of an affair with another nobleman, but this?

“Tell me, did you truly not know, or did you just lie to Graeme like you did everyone else?”

“I knew.” The words seemed to slip from Catrice’s mouth without her realising. The queen was in shock. Jessa smiled darkly. “He knew, too, though I told him it was only probable, not certain. I told him not to push it, to leave it alone. What good would it do? Our boys would be cast out, and so would we. But he was desperate to be their father. He hated watching them from afar. He said I couldn’t understand. He wasn’t wrong…”

Jessa cleared her throat. “My queen, if you cooperate with me, I assure you the king will never learn of this from me.”

Catrice snapped out of her stupor. Her gaze was brittle with malice. “I could just kill you.”

“Yes, you could. Gods know you’d actually do it. But, I really recommend you don’t,” Jessa said, idly picking at her fingernails to hide the way her hands shook. She was surprised her voice held steady. “You see, if I don’t return, or if I any ill befalls me that prevents me from achieving my goals, that won’t stop your secrets coming out. The king will receive – oh, at least five letters, just to be safe – telling him of your affair and Edmund’s illegitimacy, as will the rest of your family and other respected nobles in Ovis. And, perhaps best of all, a series of letters will make their way to your beloved.”

At that, Catrice frowned and laughed – nervously rather than with any true mirth. Jessa doubted she would feel relaxed enough for a true smile ever again. “What would sending such a letter to him achieve?”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me, my queen,” Jessa said lightly. “Graeme Janes would receive a letter of a very different kind. In fact, he would not find only a letter, but a memory. Lady Margrethe’s confession – a real one, not the one the king presented to the world.”

Catrice had gone deathly silent. Jessa swallowed hard, hating herself for what she was doing. Hating more the woman in front of her, who had made Jessa feel guilty for the death Catrice had caused. She forced the words out, loud and stark and clear, “I wonder how Graeme Janes would react to learning that you killed his – your – son. That you are the reason he will never know one of his sons?”

Catrice’s eyes slowly met Jessa’s, true fear dawning on her for the first time. Jessa had not miscalculated. Of course the queen did not want her sons’ illegitimacy made public, but it was not Alrick she feared. She feared losing Graeme forever, or at least his good opinion. Catrice loved Graeme Janes.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Catrice slumped in her chair and sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Khalid Farani,” Jessa began, noting the flicker of concern in Catrice’s expression. Jessa imagined the queen was beginning to realise just how much Jessa had uncovered. “Told me that you knew something about the disappearances he had been investigating in Barichea. Young children were going missing. You found one of them. Where?”

“The north road, thirty miles west of Ovis. There was a wagon. Two girls and one boy.”

“There were others? Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

Jessa took a step forward. “Where. Are. They?”

“They’re safe. The girls’ families hadn’t come looking for them like the boy. Khalid took the boy and started searching for the girls’ families.”

Jessa pursed her lips, but she did not argue. She did not trust Catrice to keep them safe, but she hoped she could believe in Khalid. “Have there been other wagons?”

“They changed their route. They’d be stupid to smuggle the same way again.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jessa pointed out. She was trying desperately to keep calm, when all she wanted to do was shake all the information out of the woman before her. She could not stand how difficult she was being. Did she even care? Jessa wouldn’t be surprised if she did not. There had to be something in this for her, but Jessa would not have time for such an interrogation. She had ignored it as best she could, but her hand was beginning to seize up quite painfully. She would need to leave soon.

“We’d observed the wagons for some time before Khalid came to me with his worries and my people ambushed them. Another five miles beyond that, the wagons disappear.” Catrice pursed her lips. “Same with the other two routes they’ve been known to take.”

“So based on that, you have some estimate of where their destination could be?”

Catrice sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I’d say within a twenty-mile radius of Sorone. It could be exactly where they disappear, or they could go beyond. Past that threshold, my people haven’t been able to see them. At first, they forgot what they were even doing. It took considerable focus to remember their task.”

Magic must conceal them beyond that point, and take control of their mind to dissuade them from following. Jessa hoped that would mean the radius was even smaller than Catrice’s estimate, for it must take considerable power to hold such magic over large distances. She could find the children. She still didn’t know why it was so important that she learn this, but Jessa knew it was. Something in the back of her mind could not let it go – or the horror that lurked whenever she thought of it.

“Do you know who is responsible?” Jessa asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Who do you think?” Catrice replied rhetorically.

“You know about him, then.” Jessa watched the queen carefully. “I thought as much. You could not have kept the twins’ true parentage from him if you didn’t. How?” And why did you do nothing? she added silently, though she knew the answer. Catrice wanted to remain queen.

Catrice didn’t seem to see the point in lying to Jessa now. “Maira. As a child, she did… things.” Catrice met Jessa’s gaze, smirking faintly. “And now I know that you know too.”

“Yes, well, there’s little point getting it into your head that you should go to the king.” Not least because he already knew of Jessa’s allegiance. But the queen did not need to know such things.

“The letters?”

“They’re safe,” Jessa said, mimicking Catrice’s earlier comment, “and waiting in case you cross me. Perhaps I’ll call on you again. I’m sure there are many things you know.” She turned her back on the queen and headed for the door.

“One question. I’m sure I’m allowed that.” Jessa stopped halfway across the room, raising her eyebrows. Slowly, she turned around and nodded in concession. The queen steepled her fingers, and said, so casually it hurt, “Why would you not have used what you believe you know about your mother against me?”

Jessa’s heart stopped dead. She could not believe Catrice would even bring her mother into the conversation. It didn’t make sense.

And then she saw the amusement shining in Catrice’s eyes and knew exactly why. In this entire exchange, Jessa had had the upper hand. By mentioning Emara, Catrice had thrown her. Catrice could take back some control, for it served Catrice better to bring Emara into the equation now rather than waiting for Jessa to surprise her with it.

But Jessa could not relinquish the upper hand. “Is that a confession?”

“Not at all. I did not kill your mother. But I know you think it, and my dear husband does too.”

“Then you’ve already answered your question. For one, you would never admit it and it would be my word against yours. And my mother just isn’t… important enough.” Jessa swallowed hard. “I would like nothing more than to see you suffer for what you did to her, and for depriving me of my mother when I was five years old. But the only people who would really care already know. Your reputation will not suffer enough for speculation that you killed a servant over twenty years ago; this world is too cruel for justice. You would talk your way out of such an accusation. I needed something you’d be too afraid even to speak out about.”

“You’ve become a good, little Marinon, haven’t you?” Catrice jeered, voice dripping with disgusted sarcasm, though to Jessa it had rather lost some of its bite. She had brought Catrice low, knocking her from her untouchable pedestal. Jessa lay her hand on the doorknob. She did not turn around, instead staring at her hand.

“I am not and will never be a Marinon,” she declared, quiet but firm. She yanked open the door. “I never was.”

[Rosabeth]

In an ideal scenario, Rhys would have come quickly from the forest, awaiting the others at his home to help them with Anja. Instead, he stumbled into the room where the others gathered like a drunkard before falling to the ground in front of an expectant crowd.

“What took you? We expected you back hours ago! We were considering going out after you.” Selene’s words stopped in an instant, her eyes flickering down. She pushed Rhys’ hands away from the seeping wound with a low gasp. “Did you walk all the way here with that?”

“Rode,” Rhys muttered through clenched teeth. The magic Nina had used to subdue the pain had long since dissipated, her healing attempts apparently not enough to close the wound but merely stifle the flow of blood. It was nowhere near as severe as the the wound inflicted by Merai all those months ago, but it was enough. Selene glanced up at Nina - trailing in behind Rhys with rather more composure - with a frown.

“I’m not a healer!” Nina exclaimed, sinking into an empty chair. She rested her elbows on her knees, her hands holding her bowed head. No one commented on the dried blood that coated her hands and stained her dress. No one so much as gave it a second look. “Look, I did the best I could, ok? He could be worse. He’s not going to die, so calm down.”

Paying no mind to Selene’s protests, or her attempts to keep him down, Rhys struggled against the pain and wooziness to right himself. “Where’s Anja?”

A horrible retching interrupted Rhys’ question. Sprawled out on a couch with her head bent over a pail to the side, Ero holding back her hair and murmuring gentle comforts, Freya vomited, her body convulsing. She let out a low moan as the conclusions stopped, slowly pulling her head back to rest on the pillow, her eyes fluttering closed. Ero did not look at Rhys, his focus never wavering from Freya. Rhys knew it was the poison without needing to ask, the guilt of which dug it’s own wound. But it was the sudden yelp from behind Freya that made Rhys jolt, though the others seemed to pay it little attention. A healer sat beside Victor, his teeth clenched, wiping at a bloody gash that marred Victor’s left leg.

“When you see your sister tell her thanks for me,” Victor huffed, cursing at the top of his lungs as the healer prodded at the wound once more. “It was a real joy saving her life.”

Rhys opened his mouth and closed it again, his words catching on his tongue as he stared blankly at Victor. Slowly, he turned to Selene who gave him an exasperated sigh. “Anja was badly affected by the morelin by the time we were able to get to her. She was severely hallucinating and didn’t seem to recognize us. Once we got her out and cut free the ropes -”

“She took my knife and stabbed me in my damn leg!” Victor groaned. He glared at Rhys, but as his gaze came to rest upon Rhys’ own bloodied cut it softened, his eyes raising appreciatively. “Though, I have to say, seeing that makes me feel a little better.”

“Because it’s worse, or because it’s my punishment for convincing you to do this at all?”

Despite himself, Victor smiled. “Both.”

Though he felt for Victor, Rhys’ heart leapt at his words. Anja was safe, and apparently strong enough to fight even in the most dire of circumstances. The news filled Rhys with relief, and he let himself relax against Selene’s arms, much to her relief. Once satisfied with Victor’s care the healer turned her attentions to Rhys, though visually disappointed with his request to use restraint with her magic. The wound was shallow, Rhys lucky enough to have scraped by without significant damage, but the real punishment came with its treatment. As the healer began the suture, Rhys grit his teeth through every pass of the needle, small rips torn into his hands from where his nails dug into his palms. Victor watched calmly from across the room, a broad smirk on his face. Was Rhys not absolutely sure in Victor’s intents, he would have thought them to be enemies.

It became quickly apparent to all involved that Rhys was not content to rest. The moment the healer finished with Rhys’ wound he pushed himself up, only for a wave of dizziness to stop him in his tracks, the figures around him all tilting at odd angles. Selene gripped Rhys’ arms, steadying him. “You’ve lost too much blood, Rhys. You need to rest.” The healer seemed to accept Rhys as a lost cause before the others, rolling her eyes at Selene’s request as she slowly shook her head, turning her attention to Freya’s resumed retching.

Rhys shook off Selene’s hold, trying once more to stand, finding his attempt just as ineffective as the world spun around him. “Why must you be so difficult all the time?” Selene muttered.

“I need to see Anja,” Rhys said, blinking again and again, trying to adjust his vision to no avail.

“You need sleep,” Selene retorted. “Anja’s not going anywhere.”

Rhys shook his head, hearing Selene curse under her breath. “I need to see my sister.”

“Anja needs rest too, Rhys.”

“Great, problem solved - we can rest together.”

Throwing her hands up with an exasperated sigh, Selene surrendered, hooking her arms under Rhys’ to help him to his feet. “I don’t know why I even try, honestly. You’re impossible.”

What should have taken only seconds took many long minutes, an increasingly frustrated Selene propping Rhys up as he stumbled through the hall. When Selene quietly pressed open the door to Anja’s room Rhys’ eyes immediately fell upon his father perched at Anja’s beside, staring hopelessly out the open window. Anja lay motionless in bed beside him, clothed in a nightdress with blankets draped over her body. The mage who had taken her form had been meticulous in the details - all but one. Where her wrists had been bound, clean bandages now covered the bloodied skin, the cuts and bruises on her face and arms cleaned and tended to. Were she alert, sitting by the fire with their father engrossed in conversation, Rhys would have thought little of the marks that scarred her face and body. It was not they that terrified Rhys - it was Anja’s silence.

Jumping to his feet, a look of relief passed over Rhys’ father’s face as Selene and Rhys made their entrance, relief clearly not sourced from the sight of Rhys safely returned. He hovered for a moment, watching Anja with consternation before gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. From a distance Rhys could read the concern on his father’s face, but up close he could see the panic etched into every line. Rhys’ chest constricted, his eyes darting to Anja’s unnaturally still form. “She’s alright,” his father murmured, catching Rhys’ wide-eyed glances. “Well, physically she’ll be fine. Nothing that won’t mend with time.”

Rhys did not miss the exclusion. “Mentally?”

His father quickly glanced back, his face falling. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Rhys. She hasn’t said a single word to me - to anyone - since we’ve been back. I know it’s only been a few hours, but…I didn’t expect this. I’ve never known Anja to be quiet. I was hoping maybe she’d talk to you. If something happened to her…” Rhys could hear the break in his father’s voice, his jaw trembling. “You might understand better than the rest of us what she’s going through.”

Those long days rotting in Alrick’s prison were not memories Rhys wished to revisit, but the sight of Anja catatonic before him was more than enough to push away the part of him that longed to repress those thoughts. Selene helped him to the bedside, Anja remaining silent and still even as Rhys sat beside her, propping up a pillow behind himself and pulling his legs onto the bed. She did not stir as Selene exited the room, or when their father followed close behind, or even in the silence that followed. Rhys waited patiently for some time, holding out hope that the absence of their father’s hovering and a moment in silence might prompt some action. Yet when Rhys’ silence was met with a silence even more oppressive, it quickly became clear that his plan was going nowhere.

“Anja?” He said slowly, nudging her back with his elbow. “Hey, I know you can hear me. If you’re going to feign sleep you should at least close your eyes.” Silence answered, but Rhys did not let it dissuade him. He nudged again, and a third time, knowing full well how she’d always detested that sort of poking and prodding as a child. It was a childish action, but Rhys was not looking for anything more than some noise of dissatisfaction, anything at all that would offer some indication that the Anja he knew was still in there. It was not until several minutes of such attempts yielded no reaction whatsoever that dread began to swell inside him.

The words were strangely difficult to verbalize. He rearranged them in his mind, again and again, but they never felt right. The last time he’d spoke in any detail on the subject he’d had a sizable amount to drink, and with the right prodding the words had all but tumbled out. But this was not that.

“When I was in there - locked up for weeks - I didn’t think I’d ever get out. He came almost every day, not that I could tell you how many days passed, and tortured me. Mostly he wanted information, but we know he didn’t need to torture me for weeks for that. He enjoyed it, watching me suffer. I think he enjoyed making Jessa do it even more. It was unbearable, but I’m not just talking about the pain. The torture was excruciating, but what came after, the hallucinations, the dreams…that was so much worse.” Somewhere in his words Rhys felt Anja shift ever so slightly. Under normal circumstances it would be hardly worth registering, but now it meant everything. Slowly, Rhys pushed back a section of hair, revealing a jagged wound on Anja’s scalp stitched up much like Rhys’. She flinched against Rhys’ touch, and gently Rhys released the hair, pulling back his hand. “I did that too, you know. Hurt myself. I didn’t mean to - I did it in my sleep. But still, there was a part of me that wished I’d been more successful. It could have been over, then. All my pain gone. I was too weak to do it myself, too afraid of what taking my own life would be like.”

His words had the desired effect. Finally, excruciatingly slowly, Anja rolled to face Rhys, her large, bright eyes dulled, staring blankly at him. “You never said-”

“I didn’t want you to,” he whispered. “It’s not exactly a proud moment in my life.”

Anja stared at him, unflinching, trying to decode his expression, though for what Rhys did not know. “You tried to commit suicide?”

“I tried to get the courage to commit suicide; I never made a serious attempt. I couldn’t do it. I should have, though. Obviously now I’m glad I didn’t, but then? I had no reason to think I’d ever get out. Would taking my own life not have been the more noble way to die? Would it not have been better for everyone? If I’d let Alrick kill me it would have been a long, painful death, I have no doubt. But what scared me more than that was wondering if he’d force Jessa to do it. I think he would have, especially after what I did to him. I couldn’t do that to her. Jessa would never kill someone - not even someone who deserved it. How could I allow her be forced to kill me? I should have just taken my life then and saved her from that fate, but…I couldn’t.”

Anja had never been one to hide her emotions, not from Rhys of all people. Quick-witted, boisterous, opinionated to a fault, but never quiet. Never contemplative. He waited for some break in her dead-eyed stare, but Anja only blinked slowly. Then, with no warning, she let out a bitter laugh, though it did not touch her eyes. Her eyes downturned, staring at some fixed spot. “One day. That’s all it was. One day. You were captured for weeks, and somehow you survived. They have me one day and I’m falling apart.”

They were not the words he’d expected, so foreign Rhys wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. But with her confession Rhys understood the emptiness in Anja’s eyes, the quiet that had consumed her. It was not sadness - it was self-loathing. Slowly, Rhys pressed his fingers near the wound on Anja’s scalp once more. “Do you know how long it took for me to do that?” Anja briefly locked eyes with Rhys before looking away once more. Her own form of answer. “A week? Days, at least. It’s hard to know - it all felt like a year to me. But certainly it was not the first day. For our…condition…to have prompted that in a day? I cannot fathom what you endured. Maybe I suffered longer, but what does that have to do with your suffering? Why does everything have to be a competition between us? Are you really going to compare our experiences with torture?” Rhys would have laughed at the sheer absurdity were it not so very grim. “Anja, you hold yourself to impossible standards. What happened to you is inexcusable; you are allowed to feel the pain of that. Stop putting on this ridiculous show of strength. You’re allowed to hurt.”

For a moment Anja looked almost angry, and in the next her tears washed that anger away, violent sobs rocking her body. Her fists curled around the blanket pulled up to her chest, her knuckles white. The shock rendered Rhys incapable of even the most basic of comforting gestures, him staring stupidly down at his sister. As he regained his senses he put a hand to her head, stroking her hair. “Anja, Anja, it’s alright. You’re safe now. You’re here.”

His words did not quell the tears. Anja buried her head in the pillows, resting near Rhys’ side, as he continued to stroke her hair. “I wanted to die.” Her words were garbled through her tears, and barely more than a whisper, but Rhys did not need eloquence. He knew.

“It’s over. You’re safe with me.”

And so they sat like that until Anja’s sobs and shaking stopped, until she gradually relented to sleep. She awoke twice screaming, her nails tearing at her own skin. Rhys placated her both times, quieted the cries that followed and stayed by her side. Anja did not speak either time, but the relief in her eyes said enough. Once, Anja had been there for him when he’d been a far more tragic wreck. Now it was his turn to repay the favor.

***

Rhys blinked into the setting sun filtering through the curtains, replacing the night sky that should have been there. He stretched out is aching muscles, his neck bent at an odd angle. Somehow he'd fallen asleep upright, for which his body now punished him. Rhys looked around blearily to find Anja sleeping soundly, curled on her side. It hurt to see her suffer, but beyond the pain was a joy as well. At least she was alive. It was more than Rhys could say for all those he loved.

To his great relief his legs did not immediately give out when he pushed himself from bed. The wooziness of the night had subsided, though each step still felt weak. The halls were abuzz with servants though they paid Rhys no mind. He largely ignored them too, his mind fixed on one thing and one thing only. He should have gone earlier. With everything going on, needed the reassurance he hoped to find. Worry began to take hold as he grew closer, Rhys speeding up his steps the best he could. It was not until a familiar, soothing voice came from the door at the end of the hall, singing an Aquenine lullaby, that Rhys let himself take a sigh of relief.

His mother sat in bed propped by a mountain of pillows, gazing lovingly down at the infant in her arms. Venya perched at the edge of the bed looking equally as enamored. The two women smiled as the child cooed, so enraptured they did not register Rhys' entrance until he was nearly by their side. The moment Rhys’ mother’s eyes set upon his face he watched them light up, and it was as though a great weight had lifted from his chest. As Rhys blinked back tears his mother lifted one hand from the child and took Rhys’ hand, pulling him down until she could kiss his brow.

“You’re alright,” Rhys breathed. He looked his mother up and down, finding her remarkably well. Whatever scars were left were hidden by blankets. Rhys wondered how much magic had been used to heal a wound that should have killed. How had his mother suffered? Had she too seen the terrible visions he’d first seen all those months ago? He was afraid to ask. Yet if his mother suffered, she did not show it. She only kept her eyes on Rhys, her smile never waning.

“I’ve seen better days, but I’ll live. Venya has been taking excellent care of me, thank the Gods for her. And her little daughter Asha has certainly raised my spirits.” Rhys’ mother rocked the girl, cooing at the child, but Rhys’ attention turned elsewhere. Venya was thankfully not watching him, and so the sadness in Rhys’ eyes went unnoticed. When her attention did fall upon Rhys he nodded his head toward the door, Veyna furrowing her brow.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Rhys attempted his best Antascian, it apparently coming out clear enough for Venya to nod in response, though her look of confusion stayed put. With one long glance at her daughter, apparently deciding Rhys’ mother was trustworthy enough to care for the girl for a moment, Venya followed Rhys from the room, the two huddling close in the hall. Rhys had thought of what he might say in this situation, how he might soften the information, but in the moment it all came tumbling out without care.

“I found Tristan.”

Venya looked as though she might collapse. She cried out, grabbing Rhys’ arms and rambling off what sounded like a prayer, though unlike the sort Rhys knew. There were tears in her eyes as she began to thank him, again and again, leaving Rhys wishing he could sink into the floor. He’d spoken too soon. When he did not smile, did not speak, Venya began to take notice. Her words cut off in an instant as she stared at Rhys, the dawning of what had not been said hitting with force. She gasped, clutching at her chest as Rhys quickly worked to mend the damage.

“Don’t worry, he’s alive! But…” Rhys bit his lip, racking his brain for the right way to phrase such a delicate phrase in a language he commanded so poorly. Venya hung on his ever word, her dark eyes wide. Rhys could barely meet her gaze. “It’s difficult to say. He’s…not himself.”

“Take me to him!” Venya insisted, tightening her grip on Rhys’ arms. “Please, if you can. I need to see him. He needs to see Asha.”

Rhys’ chest tightened as he looked away. What had he gotten himself into? The desperation in Venya’s eyes made the guilt for getting up her hopes all the more severe. “I don’t think you should bring her. Not yet. It won’t be safe.”

Though she seemed taken back by the news, Venya nodded enthusiastically, pulling on Rhys’ arm. “Then your mother can watch her. It will be fine. Please, please, take me to Tristan. I’ll do anything.” Rhys nodded, regretting the decision already but knowing it was what he must do. “Meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes. I’ll take you to him then.”

As Venya returned to Rhys’ mother’s side, Rhys made his way to yet another in a series of uncomfortable conversations. He’d thought what he might say to the others when he had orchestrated the plan, knowing full well the reactions he’d received. Yet he was desperate and out of options, and if that meant facing what was sure to be a unpleasant situation then so be it. Selene and Ero lounged in the room where he’d last seen them, speaking quietly to one another as Freya slept with her head in Ero’s lap, Victor nowhere to be seen. At Rhys’ entrance Selene quickly sprung from her seat, reaching out a hand as if to steady him. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Rhys insisted. Selene did not seem so convinced with Rhys’ words but she withdrew her hands nonetheless. Ero did not so much as look up, keeping his eyes on Freya. Rhys raised his brows, looking to Selene, but she simply shook her head with an exasperated sigh.

“It’s the whole mage thing. He’s not very…happy.”

“Stop saying that!” Ero snapped, glaring up at Selene.

“It’s true! Ever since your father -”

“Don’t mention him,” Ero seethed, suddenly aware of his rising voice as Freya stirred in her sleep. He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Look, it’s not the simple, ok? I’m not bitter -” Selene snorted, prompting another pointed glare, “I’m not, but it’s difficult.”

Selene seemed to decide better of further provoking him, and Ero’s concern for waking Freya kept him from continuing on in his defense. Rhys stared awkwardly at the two, rather wishing they’d been in a better mood. He doubted his words would improve it.

“I need to talk to both of you…elsewhere.”

Ero frowned, his eyes fixated on Freya. “Elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere.”

“Is there a reason you’re being vague?” Selene pressed.

“If I say ‘yes’ is that a good enough answer for you?”

When it was clear pressing Rhys for information would get them nowhere, Selene sighed, motioning for Ero to come as she followed Rhys, Ero eventually relenting with much trepidation. For the first few moments they followed in silence, but when it became apparently obvious that ‘elsewhere’ was not simply outside the door, the questions began to roll in. Rhys ignored them studiously until he caught sight of Venya in the foyer, waiting patiently as expected. As they approached, Selene and Ero went quiet, the two exchanging a look as they took in Venya.

“Um, Rhys, what’s going on? Why is your mother’s healer here? I thought you wanted to talk.”

“I do…just not here. And Venya’s not just my mother’s healer - this concerns her too.”

Selene narrowed her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t like this, Rhys. You’re being purposefully vague and that’s never good coming from you.”

“Look, I promise I’ll explain everything, just not here. It’ll be easier if I can explain when we’re there.”

“Where?” Selene groaned, but Rhys was already out the door, Venya close on his heels.

Selene and Ero badgered Rhys to no avail for the first half of the walk, but when it became clear Rhys would not be more forthcoming the two decided to cut their losses, skulking quietly behind
as they muttered between themselves. Rhys’ reasoning was selfish, that he accepted, but he was in no mood to argue tooth and nail. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner into a familiar city square that the unhappy acceptance Selene and Ero seemed to have agreed to broke.

“Rhys…” Ero began, his footsteps growing faster, “why are we headed toward my house?”

“I’ll explain it all when we’re there.”

“Why are we going to my house, Rhys?” Ero’s voice grew more panicked, but Rhys only continued on, quickening his step. They were already at the doorstep by the time Ero caught up, grabbing Rhys’ arm and spinning him around.

“What is -” Ero began, but his words quickly dissipated as another man’s voice cut in, quiet and solemn.

“Ero.”

Ero looked up at his father with a blank stare, one that quickly turned to horror as he looked between his father and Rhys, pointing his finger back and forth. “Oh no, did Rhys rope you into something?”

“I think it’s best you all come inside.”

Were it not for the stilted relationship between Ero and his father, it would have been unlikely for the words to be followed so quickly. Perhaps in an effort to avoid speaking, Ero merely grimaced, following his father into the house with great reluctance.

“I did like you said, Lord Rhys,” Lord Tallus said once they were all inside. “A few drops of that liquid ever few hours. It seems to be working - I was able to get in to give them food without anything happening - but I don’t think this is a very good idea long term. I’m worried about the effects it might have.”

Rhys nodded in thanks, but it was clear from Selene and Ero’s faces that Lord Tallus’ words had not quelled their worries. Rhys turned to his friends, taking a deep breath in preparation for what he was sure would not be a pleasant experience. “I’m sure my father told you that I took care of the mages we encountered in the woods.”

“Yes,” Selene said, frowning.

“Well, I did…in a manner of speaking.”

Selene groaned. “Oh, no.”

“We’ve been so certain that there’s nothing to be done about the mages - that whatever magic controls them is too strong to be broken - but what if we can help them? What if there is a way to break that connection that controls them? If poison is enough to subdue a mage’s magic enough to keep them from attacking, then who’s to say that further suppressing that magic might be enough to destroy the connection for good?”

“Why, why do you have to be like this, Rhys? Is it not enough to get Anja? Is it not enough to be safe?” Selene exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. While Selene remained consumed with her frustration, Ero seemed quickly to have pieced together the rest of the puzzle, gaping in horror at Rhys.

“Rhys, tell me right now - are there mages in this house?”

“I can’t have them in my house without my parents finding out, and I assure you they will not react as kindly as your father did. Besides, your father is such a recluse no one would expect anything.”

Ero moaned, slumping against the wall and burrowing his head in his hands. Selene merely stood in shocked silence, flickering her attentions between Rhys and Ero. “Where?” Ero said quietly, keeping his face in his hands.

“In the cellar. They’ve been secured, so there’s no need to worry about them escaping.”

Selene shook her head in exasperation. “Let me guess - you want me to talk to Nayall again, to get some ideas as to what he might do?” Rhys’ look of guilt gave answer enough, Selene merely continuing to shake her head.

With the others engrossed with their own wild disapproval of Rhys’ actions, Rhys turned to Venya, gesturing down the long hall that lead to the cellar. “Shall we?”

With a breath to steady herself, Venya nodded, taking Rhys’ outstretched arm with an unyielding grip. Together, they descended into the cold darkness, toward a sight best left unseen. Moments later, at Venya's anguished cry, Rhys wished it could have been that way.

[Mollianne]

Laurita had been staring at her their entire silent walk from Catrice’s quarters to Jessa’s room, but it was only when they were safely ensconced inside that Laurita spoke up. “What was that? What have you done with the real Jessa?”

Ainesh, sitting over by the fire with the fake Jessa, raised his eyebrows. “What did I miss?” he asked before Jessa could say anything.

“Oh, just Jessa swapping bodies with someone who can terrify the queen of Etrene with words alone and not even blink.” As Laurita spoke, Jessa felt her body shifting as Laurita returned her to her normal appearance. Ignoring Ainesh’s stare, Jessa took the blood ring off the girl posing as her. As soon as it was back on her finger, Jessa relaxed. She despised that it could make her feel so.

“I did what I had to do,” she said quietly, turning to look at Laurita and watching in mild fascination as her friend’s face slowly became her own again.

“It worked, then?” Ainesh asked as Laurita went over to the other girl and, changing her appearance once again, instructed her to go and check on Catrice’s handmaiden. Once she was gone, Laurita took her vacated seat and draped her legs over the arms.

“I’d say so,” Laurita said. “How did you even know that would work?”

“A guess. Why would Catrice, who has only ever cared about being queen, risk everything for a nobleman?”

“Er… I’m missing something,” Ainesh said, brow furrowing in confusion. Laurita reached over and patted his hand in mock comfort.

“There, there. I’m sure you’re used to being clueless.” Laurita winked at him, but she was not smiling for long. Ainesh grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. Laurita stopped, hovering mere inches from his face.

“You want to say that again?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as they crinkled into a smile. For a long moment, their gazes held. A small smile tugged at Laurita’s lips, but it was not long before Laurita remembered herself. Her expression darkened as she pulled away. She sat back in her chair, forcing her gaze from Ainesh.

“She was talking about the child mages, wasn’t she?”

“The what?” Ainesh and Jessa asked simultaneously. They stared at her.

Laurita opened her mouth, then closed it with a frown. “I thought… I thought we’d talked about it.” Jessa shook her head in frustration. In the dark, again. Jessa made to move to the bed, studiously ignoring Laurita who reached out to try to take Jessa’s hand as she passed. Jessa skirted around her and sat heavily on her bed. She didn’t look at her friend, but she could feel Laurita’s eyes boring into her. “I thought you knew.”

“What child mages?” Ainesh asked again.

“They were at the ambush at Solridge Bay. He used children to turn the Novarians against each other.”

A deafening silence permeated the room. Jessa gripped her bedsheets, struggling to breathe. If she had been standing, she was quite sure her legs would not have held her weight. Kidnapping children – ripping them from their homes and families – was enough to make Jessa sick to her stomach. But that Alrick had taken their innocence and forced them to kill thousands of people… The sounds of the battlefield filled Jessa’s ears. Children had caused that destruction. Jessa reached blindly, not knowing what she wanted. And then Laurita was there, and Jessa gripped her tightly, shaking her head against her friend’s shoulder. Her whole body trembled.

“He needs to die, Laurita.”

“I know,” Laurita murmured, smoothing her hair.

“We need to save them.”

“We will. We know where he’s keeping them. All we have to do is find the mage controlling them.”

Jessa shook her head. Something about that felt… wrong. It stirred in her gut, a warning. “What if that doesn’t work?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Laurita asked. “It worked for Nayall.”

“We can’t kill someone, Laurita.”

“Kill someone?” Ainesh’s expression was an odd mixture of bewilderment and fear. “What are you even-?”

“It’s the only way we know will work to free those children.” Laurita pulled away from Jessa, though she kept one hand wrapped firmly around Jessa’s. “I don’t want to do it, but what choice is there? Alrick has gone too far, and we can do something about it. We know where they are. Nayall will be back soon. I can ask him to send out scouts.”

“Catrice said that there’s magic around the place. They’ll forget what they’re doing.”

“We’re all mages, remember. Someone will be able to make a blood amulet, I’m sure of it. They’ll scout it out, follow another wagon – I don’t believe for a second he’s stopped kidnapping them. We’ll find the bastard controlling those children, and we’ll kill him.”

“We know roughly where they are. Somewhere near Sorone is not a lot to go on.”

“I’ll talk to my uncle,” Ainesh said, his voice grave. Jessa frowned at him. “If this king is doing this, you can bet he’s going to do all he can to hide any trace that he’s involved. He’ll have hired mercenaries or something to… abduct those children.” Ainesh shuddered. “Maybe there’s a trail somewhere. The councillors have access to all records. I’m not saying Alrick will have put it in plain sight, or that it’ll be easy to find, but maybe my uncle can find something that doesn’t add up. Maybe we can find who’s kidnapping them.”

Jessa nodded, realising Lady Tremont’s true genius once again. Marrying Jessa to Ainesh, and all that it entailed – manoeuvring her youngest son closer to Alrick’s inner circle – had been inspired. Jessa had not thanked the woman enough.

But there were people closer to the king than the councillors. Jessa swallowed the lump in her throat. Catrice could get her far, but there was someone else who Jessa knew Alrick actually trusted and saw as a friend. She hoped – for the friend she had known – that Alistair would not know anything about the children. Her heart ached to think of it. But she could leave no stone unturned.

She looked at Laurita, then Ainesh, and back again. They watched her back, grim determination hardening their jaws. Jessa nodded. “I suppose we’ve got work to do.”

***

As the servant knocked on Alrick’s office door, Jessa wished she had the strength to claim tiredness, or the courage to say it must be too late for the king to request a meeting with her. Really she wished she had been brave enough earlier to turn down Alrick’s request. But one did not refuse the king’s orders, and Jessa could not be sure the servant would not have suffered for it. So here she was, confused and scared, long after night had fallen over the castle, waiting for the king to call her inside. She had a terrifying suspicion she knew what – or rather, who – she would find inside.

The door opened, a slender white hand sliding around to pull it open further. That was not Alrick’s hand.

“Ah, Jessa, so good of you to join us,” Maira said, false sincerity dripping from her words and forced smile. She widened the door to let Jessa pass. Jessa took a single step over the threshold before she stopped dead, taking in the scene before her. Alrick sat behind his desk, his arms resting on the chair’s. His smile was easy and wicked. Taunting. For in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk, angled such that Jessa could plainly see her bruised face, was a young girl – barely sixteen.

Maira poked her in the back, forcing her towards the chair waiting less than a metre from the girl’s. Jessa sat slowly, her gaze transfixed as fear clogged her throat.

“Forgive me,” Alrick said, sitting up straighter and waving a hand between them, “I don’t believe you’ve met. Jessa, this is Lady Briony Tanse. Lady Briony, this is Jessa, the one who put you here.”

Though she had known the words were coming before they were spoken, they were still a punch to Jessa’s heart. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

Briony stared at Jessa, unreadable, immutable. “No.”

Jessa had not expected her apology to be accepted – nor deserved it – but hearing that stark reply brought even more guilt to the surface, clawing at her throat. The girl looked away, raising her chin as she faced the king. “Take me back to my mother.”

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

“And you have no right to arrest entire – innocent – families.”

Maira had taken her place by her father’s right side. “Oh, your family have crimes enough.”

“My sister and I have done nothing.”

“Perhaps. Better to be safe than sorry,” Alrick said lightly, but his words were not for Briony. His gaze had shifted to Jessa, wanting her to realise that he had arrested a sixteen-year-old girl because of Jessa, not because of any specific, provable crime. Jessa dropped her gaze. “We’ll find out soon enough whether you’re lying.”

Jessa’s heart stopped. No. Not that. It couldn’t be…

“You can torture me all you like,” Briony said, throwing as much venom as she could into her words. But the shake in her voice was unmistakeable. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessa saw Briony grasp the arms of her chair with her trembling fingers so her captors would not see. She was sixteen. “I have nothing to hide. Take me back to my family.”

“No.”

Briony’s scream filled the air as she clutched her head. She slammed herself back against the chair, over and over. “Get it out, get it out, get it out!”

“STOP.” Jessa tried to stand, but Maira flicked a glance her way and she was shoved hard into her seat. Maira flashed her a hard, satisfied smile. Power emanated from the princess, making her stand taller. Her gaze turned more wicked as she looked back at the screaming noble. Jessa knew what she felt. She had felt it once, in a dark dungeon where Alrick had made her turn her magic on Rhys. A heady rush of power. But while it had filled Jessa with disgust and self-hatred, Maira seemed to glow with it. Whatever Maira could have been without her magic, with it Maira was drunk on the rush and willing to do anything to feel it.

A smile curled Maira’s lips as Briony started frantically brushing at her arms. “Get them away from me,” she screamed.

“Spiders can’t hurt you,” Maira jeered. But Briony wasn’t listening, consumed by a nightmare that did not exist. She clawed at her skin, drawing blood. She still threw her head against the chair, still made those guttural screams. Both father and daughter were hurting her, and Jessa could do nothing.

It was her fault. Briony should never have been here. Her fault. Jessa should have let Alrick kill her. Her fault. Briony’s cry ripped through Jessa’s body but she refused to look away. Her fault. She saw the tears fall like a waterfall down Briony’s cheeks. She was just sixteen.

“Mother!” Briony screeched desperately through her tears. Her voice was hoarse and terrified.

“Stop,” Jessa begged. She said it over and over and over, until Alrick flicked his eyes at her and her voice disappeared. Jessa opened and closed her mouth uselessly, feeling panic rising within her. This is what she had done to Catrice. If Jessa had any more room to be sickened by herself, she would.

Abruptly, the pressure around her throat lessened. Though she had not been starved of it, Jessa gasped for air. A moment later, Alrick was behind her, bending down to hiss in her ear, “You can stop this, Jessa. This is only happening because of you. As long as you fight me, everyone around you will suffer. Do you want that, Jessa?”

Alrick waved a hand at his daughter. Maira looked away from Briony, power still thrumming through her veins. Briony continued to scream. Alrick said sharply, “Maira.”

Briony stopped. Stopped screaming, stopped swiping at her arms. She stared listlessly ahead. Her arms were covered in scratches. An angry, purple bruise bloomed on her forehead. Her cheeks shone with her tears. She was still trembling. Jessa wondered whether Briony would ever be still again, and realised she was crying right along with the younger girl.

“How much blood will you have on your hands before you realise you’re drowning, Jessa?” Alrick asked, his voice so gentle and fatherly an outsider might believe he cared for her. “6,000 soldiers.”

Jessa closed her eyes, hearing their screams as they died below her while she did nothing. She covered her ears, bringing her legs to her chest. No, no, no. They didn’t stop screaming. Alrick leaned forward, roughly pulling her chin up and forcing her to look into Briony’s frightened eyes.

“Four for the Tanses,” Maira said quietly. “To save your own skin.”

Briony looked over, her shaking hands balling into fists. The king kept his grip tight on Jessa’s face, forcing her to face Briony’s rage and disgust. The girl struggled against the bonds that tied her to the chair, her fists clenched. “I’m sorry,” Jessa whispered. Briony spat at her. Alrick turned her to face him. Maira stood beside him now.

“One for my son,” Alrick said, his voice shaking with rage. “If you had not come here, there would have been no arrow for you.”

Alrick pushed her face away in disgust. A moment later, sharp nails dug into her wrist as Maira tugged her forward. In her entire life, Jessa had not seen such hatred sparking from Maira’s face. Her lip curled as she brought her face close to Jessa’s ear. “You killed my brother. If my father didn’t already lay claim to your life, I would kill you myself.”

Alrick nudged his daughter out of the way, his face dominating Jessa’s view. “One for a girl you never knew, for continuing to fight even though I told you she would die.”

Jessa scrambled to think what he could mean, who else had died because of her. It was too many. Far too many. She should die. “Kill me.”

“Not yet, my daughter,” Alrick murmured, stroking her hair. “You can still make amends.”

Jessa stared unseeing at the ground. She breathed, “How?”

“Stop fighting me.” With his hiss, she saw again the battlefield at Solridge Bay. She tasted the tang of blood in her mouth, felt the death in the air, the screaming and screaming as men turned on each other. There were too many faces. Too many people for her to ever apologise. They glared at her as they died, blood spilling onto the ground. Jessa screamed.

“Father.” Maira’s voice broke through the horror. “Can I…?”

The battlefield vanished abruptly, but Jessa had not a moment to recover before another memory forced itself upon her. No. She saw the king on a stage to her left, and beyond him stood Jessa herself. Harris reached back to clutch her hand. NO. Jessa no longer knew whether she was screaming aloud or in her head. She saw the arrow, in slow motion. She should have been able to stop it. The past Jessa dived to the side, knocking into the king, but Jessa had no eyes for that. She stared at Harris, crumpled on the ground. He lay in a lake of blood, a hole in his chest where his heart should be. His face was empty. Where was the boy she loved? He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. Yet he heard his voice in her head. Why did you let me die, Jessa? Over and over. She pressed her hands over her ears but she couldn’t escape Harris’ voice, or the truth.

She’d killed him.

“Stop. Please stop.” The whispered words were unbidden. They did not feel like her words. She would not say them. She would not let him break her. And yet she had. She could only see the dead. Nothing else mattered. No more could die because of her.

“Of course I’ll stop, Jessa,” Alrick said, leaning forward from his perch on the desk and taking her hands. “All it takes is a word.” Her head tingled as she was filled with a sense of surety, of purpose. Gently, Alrick cupped Jessa’s cheek, wet with tears. “You know what you need to do.”

***

There were long scratches on her wrists, like those made by nails or the rough edges of the stone walls in the castle. Jessa tilted her head, brushing her hand over the blemishes. She had only just noticed them, and they did not hurt. She must have accidentally brushed her arm along the wall. She had done it in the past without realising. That must be it. And now she thought about it, Jessa did remember grazing past one of the walls near the kitchen as she left, and the minute pain that came with it. She had just been too focused on leaving the castle undetected. Yes, that must be it.

Jessa pulled her sleeve down over her wrist, looking up briefly to survey the street from where she leaned against the wall of a dark clothes shop that had a lopsided closed sign plastered on the door. The windows were grimy. The owners had not been there for a long time.

“Everything alright, miss?” A woman had appeared around the corner, lowering her hood to reveal long, dirty-blonde hair. “There’s no telling who you’ll run into on a starless night like this.”

This was it. She recited the words Laurita had taught her, as casually as she could, “All nights are much the same in the city these days.”

The woman nodded and gestured for Jessa to go ahead. As Jessa passed, she asked under her breath, “Nayall told you not to take such a long route to the safe house, yes?” Jessa’s right hand brushed over her left, feeling the emptiness where the ring should be. Her hand and head were not hurting, not yet.

With another quick nod, the woman led Jessa on a dizzying route to the safe house where she would meet Nayall. She barely recognised any of the streets. Ovis had been her home for all but half a year of her life, and yet it was like she did not know it at all. She glanced over her shoulder, thinking of the old woman, and of the attack on her and Khalid. Had the city always been this dangerous, or had the war brought that desperation she could feel clinging to her in the air and with it the darkness? Had Jessa’s clothes – not fine enough to mark her as an aristocrat, but enough to separate her from the common folk – been enough to shield her from Ovis’ worst? Now she wore servants’ garb and nondescript brown hair, she looked just like the rest of them. Not safe. Her own city was a stranger to her.

After some time, the woman held out a hand. “Sorry, my lady,” she said quietly, wrapping a blindfold around her eyes. “It won’t be long now.”

True to her word, within another couple of minutes – rather than the fifteen or twenty she remembered it being the last time they had blindfolded her – they were descending down an echoing staircase. The woman whipped off the blindfold in a smooth motion, gesturing towards the door at the end of the corridor. Jessa turned back to thank her, but the woman had already disappeared through one of the many other doors. Behind them all, Jessa could hear murmurings, cries, soothing song. Families, just trying to survive. This was not the same safe house as before, the one with the cavernous room. Nayall had said he’d needed more space. Apparently, his people had been busy.

Jessa was called in promptly upon her knock, Nayall’s familiar, quiet voice momentarily making Jessa feel that nothing had changed. She was not entering the office of the man who would be her king, but that of a man who seemed to enjoy sneaking up on her – one of the few breaks from the solemn, quiet man that many years under Alrick’s control had created.

Then Jessa saw him, standing at the far side of the room. She saw the way his shoulders were a little straighter, the way his chin was lifted and that he did not look at the ground. There was uncertainty there, to be sure, in the slant of his lips and in his fumble to do something with his hands. Yet, he had undeniably changed in a way the dreamwalks with Laurita had failed to capture. Then, her focus had been on survival, on Laurita. Now, she stood before her leader and there was nothing to distract her.

She wondered at making some joke to break the tension – something about whether she should bend her knee – but she stayed silent. She was not Laurita, who would have done so without hesitation, and she and Nayall had never shared such an easy relationship despite the humour he’d always expressed at surprising her. Jessa did not do well at making friends. Or keeping them – she thought of Laurita.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anywhere to sit.” Unspoken words hung in the air; they could not afford any such luxury, and even if they did have the money they would spent it on feeding their people.

“I prefer to stand anyway,” Jessa said, walking closer to Nayall who headed for her. “My… lord?”

He winced. “Just Nayall.” Jessa nodded.

They met in the centre of the room. Jessa was looking down at the floor, so she saw Nayall’s hand reach out for hers. They shook hands, and Jessa looked up to find a ghost of a smile on Nayall’s face. “It’s good to see you well. I’ve been in contact with Laurita, of course, but it’s something else to see with your own eyes. Surviving the king, especially with what he knows, is no small feat.”

“I should be dead.”

“Let’s be glad that isn’t the case. What would I tell Rhys?” Nayall said, with a smile. Jessa smiled stiffly back, before dropping her gaze and picking at her fingernails. Nayall coughed awkwardly. “Speaking of Rhys, he left me with a message for you: to be safe, and that he loves you.”

Jessa’s ears buzzed as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Her heart betrayed her, fluttering at the words, needing them to be true, wanting them again. No. She could not – would not – fall for this. She would not be blinded by words she wanted to hear. No, she did not want to hear them. She didn’t want anything to do with Rhys. Her heart didn’t seem to be listening. It was too busy shattering into pieces as the truth slammed into her. She had not thought there was anything left of it to hurt again, but there it was. Rhys was determined to continue his ruse. Any benefit of the doubt she might have offered him – that he had realised he had not loved her only after their divorce and had just been unable to tell her before meeting that other woman – shrivelled and died. He did not know she knew of his dalliance; he wanted her to still believe his love. To what end? Why continue to torment her? Why continue, when he was free of her? Jessa didn’t understand. There was something she was missing. She could feel it, somewhere in the back of her mind. But she couldn’t see. She couldn’t make sense of it.

He’s cruel. The voice in her head was harsh and unyielding. It doesn’t have to make sense. He wants to keep you sweet so you continue doing what he wants. Don’t let him.

That didn’t make sense either – she was the one who had instigated so much of the bleak mess they now all faced – but the voice continued in its tirade against Rhys. Manipulative, cruel, sly. She remembered kissing that stranger. There was nothing fake about that, no way of denying it. She balled her fists. How dare he play with her, even now? She wished she was somewhere else, anywhere but there. She could feel the tears threatening to fall. She would not break down in front of Nayall. Not about this. There was a war. Her relationship with Rhys was irrelevant.

Nayall coughed again, even more awkwardly than the first. “Right… well, okay then. Do you have a message for him?”

“What?” she asked sharply.

“I’m in contact with him, through Selene?” A smile flitted across his lips. “She’s a force to be reckoned with, I’ll say. She’s been asking my advice for some of Rhys’ more… unconventional plans, and she does not hold back in telling me how re-” Nayall stopped suddenly, eyeing Jessa. “-stupid he can be. So… a message?”

Jessa had known what she had planned to discuss with Nayall, but she had not expected her lingering question to be answered so easily. The Marinons would have the answer. “Yes, actually.” She pulled the memory stone out of her pocket, holding it out for Nayall to see. He glanced at it, then back at her, in confusion. “It’s a memory stone. We’ve a plan to send them out to various people in Ovis’ poorest areas. The castle servants say they know the best people to spread the message. I could tell you what it is, but I suppose it’s easier for you to see for yourself.” She moved her hand closer to Nayall, and when he tentatively held out his hand, she dropped it into his palm. He closed his fist around it, and for a second he stood there with the same bewildered expression. Jessa’s heart began to sink with disappointment when Nayall’s eyes closed and he swayed, pulled into the memories enough to forget his true surroundings. Jessa put an arm out to steady him. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. They shone with awe as he dropped the stone back into her hand. Jessa pocketed it quickly.

“Who made this?”

“I did.” Nayall looked up at her, his mouth dropping open. Jessa bit her lip. Was it really so hard to believe?

“Well, you aren’t your father’s daughter.” The words shocked Jessa into speechlessness. She gaped at Nayall. She had not expected such words. He smiled at her thinly. “I may not have spent much time actually in the king’s presence – I’m not entirely sure how you do that either, three times in eight years was more than enough for me – but I saw enough about the mages he particularly liked to recruit. Mind readers, and artificers. The two things he never had the patience for.”

Jessa’s gaze went unbidden to her finger. She wondered who had made the ring, not that it mattered. They wouldn’t have had a choice in the matter. As if her hand knew it had her attention, it twitched. She clenched her fist, counting how much time had passed in her head. There was still time, but the tingling in her head was growing. She cursed the ring, her father. She cursed that she shared his magic, despite what Nayall had said. She looked back up at Nayall.

“Oh…” Nayall said, looking flustered. It was only then that Jessa realised her eyelashes were damp.

“Sorry,” she said, bowing her head. Nayall, tentatively, touched her hand. She looked up and his gaze caught hers.

“You’re not your father,” he said, in a surprising show of intuition. “Do you really doubt that?”

Jessa shrugged. Brushing a hand under her eye and clearing her throat, she said, “Anyway. The plan is to send the stones out to people in the city, telling them a little of Alrick’s crimes – not that they don’t already hate him – and getting your name out there. That, and to show them that the castle servants are not on the king’s side. They’re not getting on well in the city these days.

“Once they know your name and that you want to help, we turn that desire into reality. A friend of mine recently came into some money, and he’s pledged it to our cause. We can use it to buy food for the townspeople. They’re starving, and the inner city,” she faltered for a moment, knowing she was part of that group, “are doing nothing. They see you help them, they’ll follow. And this is where we need the Marinons.”

“Oh?”

“The king can’t know. There’s only one way to do that. The black market.” She smiled wryly. “The Marinons will know how to access it.”

“That’s the message you want me to send Rhys for you?” Nayall looked at her in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“No, you send it for you. This is your campaign. I’ve just provided the idea.”

Nayall watched her with a deepening frown. “Okay…” He shook his head, the leader in him taking over as he considered Jessa’s proposal. Nayall rubbed his forehead in thought, beginning to pace. “How much is your friend offering?”

“100,000 courenes.”

Nayall’s eyes widened as he stopped dead. He’d probably never heard such a number in relation to the Etrenian coin, let alone seen such an amount or had it at its disposal. Yet despite all that, it would not go far. Jessa could not say how inflated even staple foods would be on the black market, even though she was determined to remain hopeful.

“We’d be able to reach thousands with that.”

“Maybe,” Jessa said cautiously. Nayall was still gaping at her, looking less and less like a king by the second. He had a lot of learning to do, that was certain. “Just… don’t get your hopes up. It sounds a lot, I know, but…”

Nayall appraised her for a moment before nodding. He resumed pacing, thinking Jessa’s plan through. “I’m in way over my head here,” he said, and Jessa was mildly surprised he would admit that so openly. He was going to be a ruler unlike any the world had ever seen. “But… it seems reasonable. The commoners outnumber the nobility. We need them.”

“I’m working on the nobles, too, like you asked. They want to meet you.”

Nayall nodded again, and if Jessa saw a flash of uncertain fear pass over his face, she chose to ignore it. “I suppose they would. In a few days, perhaps. I’m still settling back into everything here.”

“Of course.”

They fell silent. Nayall continued to pace, and Jessa got the sense she had outstayed her welcome. She was about to take her leave when Nayall asked, “Anything to report on the king?”

“He seems more confident since Queen Tula left for Novamor. But I’ve heard nothing explicit.”

“I tried to avoid it as much as I could, but I saw several companies of soldiers on my journey north. More activity than I remember hearing from the scouts while I was with the army. I suppose he means to take advantage of what he believes is a weakness in the Novarian assault.”

Jessa feared as much, though she supposed that was the risk the Tremonts had calculated when forming this plan. She wished she could save everyone, that this war could be over, but the soldiers were miles away and had the training to defend themselves, at least. She felt useless, but that was not the case. She could help the people in this city. She knew not how much, but she could still try. She would not be impotent.

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” Jessa said, beginning to take steps back to the door. She was halfway there when Nayall spoke again.

“I… need your advice.” Jessa had never heard him quite so uncertain, even thrust into an unwelcome position of power. Jessa turned. “It’s about Laurita. And one of Rhys’ unconventional plans.” Nayall grimaced. “He asked Selene for my advice on the viability of a plan to break mages free of Alrick’s ring. It’s dangerous. Very dangerous.”

Jessa doubted she wanted to know. She also realised what Nayall was not asking. “You haven’t told Laurita.”

“I don’t want her to get her hopes up about her brother,” Nayall admitted, shrugging his shoulders. He cared for her. Jessa sighed.

“Laurita’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and she’s not stupid. She’d understand it’s not guaranteed, but I also think she’d be angry at being kept in the dark if it could save him.” Jessa pushed a hand through her hair. She and Laurita had been at odds for a while now. How was she to know what Laurita would want? She sighed. “But I don’t know, Nayall. If you haven’t heard anything about how likely it is to succeed, maybe it’s better waiting.”

They stared at each other across the room. “I went to see him,” Nayall said quietly. “I knew I had other duties, but… I can understand him, you know? I was him. I know that burning need to complete my mission.” Nayall dropped his voice. “We’ve taken that from him. He can’t follow his orders. It’s… it’s killing him, Jessa. They’ve had to chain him while I’ve been gone. He was too dangerous to others and to himself. I never experienced that need without being able to do anything about it. I thought I could go to him, talk to him, that maybe I could… share with him. That he’d know someone understands. It worked, a little. He responds if you talk to him about Alrick. It’s sick, really, the way he looks at hearing his name. I looked like that once.”

Jessa bowed her head, guilt slithering into her heart and squeezing painfully. She had been a terrible friend to Laurita. Part of her knew that when Laurita visited, she did so partially to put her brother’s condition from her mind. Jessa knew Laurita wanted to do anything but discuss him. And Jessa had let her; she had stopped trying. Laurita might not want to talk about Odaren, but she needed it. And Jessa had ignored that.

Then the rest of Nayall’s words sunk in. “Maybe I can help,” she said, a growing certainty that she needed to see Odaren forming in her gut. She ignored the ache in the back of her head telling her she did not have much time before her separation from the ring was too great. She didn’t care. Odaren and Laurita were in pain. “Odaren’s last orders were to tell the king what was hidden behind a secrecy spell. My secrecy spell. But Alrick already knows that I know he’s a mage. He doesn’t need Odaren, not anymore.”

Nayall did not respond. Jessa bit her lip uncertainly.

“Do you think it could help?” she prompted.

“I don’t know, Jessa,” he replied, shaking his head. “But maybe it’s worth a try. I’ll call for someone to take you to him.”

Odaren was not staying in the same safe house as Nayall. The same woman as before blindfolded her and took her on another dizzying, but short, walk through the city. With each step, Jessa felt her trepidation grow. Nothing in Nayall’s words had suggested what she would find would be good. Eventually they stopped, and Jessa’s guide knocked on the door. Within seconds, they were ushered inside. Jessa’s blindfold was removed.

A man stood before them, and when Jessa’s guide explained why they were there, a look of panic flashed in his eyes. Quietly to the woman, but not quietly enough to prevent Jessa hearing, he said, “I haven’t tended to him yet.”

Jessa swallowed. That was not good. She pushed aside her trepidation. “I can handle it. We can go in together.” The man stared at her for a long moment. Then, he nodded, turned on his heels and headed towards the door at the other end of the square room. He glanced at Jessa once more, then pushed the door open. Inside, there was… nothing. Silence.

The man went in ahead of her, heading straight for Odaren with a grim resignation bowing his head. Placing a bucket of sloshing water at his feet, he lifted Odaren’s shackled wrists gently, laying his palms over the bloodied, bruised skin. The bruises shimmered and disappeared. The skin stitched back together. The man worked methodically, cleaning away the blood before repeating his magic on Odaren’s cheek and jaw. Then, without a word or glance at Jessa, he picked up the bucket and solemnly left the room. The door creaked closed behind him.

Jessa stared at the man on the bed before her. Without the healer holding him up, he slumped against the wall. His eyes stared listlessly at the corner of the room. Jessa swallowed against the heavy lump in her throat. She could not help but feel a choking guilt. This was her fault too. She took slow, measured steps toward the bed. Her hand was out, reaching for him, before she even realised. She did not want to startle him. Her hand fell to her side.

“Odaren, it’s Jessa,” she said, desperation tingeing her voice as she perched gingerly on the bed and leaned forward. “Do you remember me?”

Odaren didn’t so much as blink. He didn't move to push the hair that had fallen into his eyes. It was longer than the last time she had seen him, but it was clean. Someone was washing his hair but refusing to cut it. Scissors could be a weapon – either for Odaren to use on others or… himself. Jessa swallowed hard.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked, resting her hand on the rough blanket mere inches from Odaren’s hand. Jessa sighed, smiling sadly. “I don’t either. They’re secretive around here.”

Her joke fell flat, leaving the room even more desolate than before. She stared at him desperately. In a sudden rush of determination and purpose, Jessa moved her hand to cover Odaren’s. It was cold. “You do not have to face this world alone, not anymore.

Jessa had not known what she was expecting, but her disappointment when he did not respond dug deep in her heart. She bowed her head and began to pull away. But then icy fingers curled around the tips of her fingers. Jessa snapped her head back in surprise. Odaren stared right at her, though his eyes were so blank she wondered that he might be staring through her. She paused, waiting for him to do something – anything.

“Let me go,” he whispered. “I need to tell the king…”

Jessa’s heart lodged in her throat. “No, Odaren, he already knows. He doesn’t need you to tell him anything now.”

Odaren looked up at her, and his eyes saw her. He searched her face for a sign of a lie. He shook his head. “No, he needs me, he needs me…”

Jessa swallowed hard, scrambling to take Odaren’s hand as his voice grew more frantic and he started to thrash. “Odaren, no, please.”

He slammed his head back against the wall. He wasn’t listening to her. He needed to listen. To add to it all, Jessa’s head cried out in pain. Her finger twitched, an ache from deep in her bone causing it to seize. She balled her hand into a fist. She needed to go, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t leave Odaren like this. “Odaren…”

“Let me go back!” he screamed at her. Jessa glanced over her shoulder, sure someone would come in at any moment.

“Odaren, please listen to me. We need you.” Somehow, the words broke through and Odaren froze, breathing heavily. Jessa sighed in relief and bowed her head.

“Let me leave.” His voice was a broken whisper. “They won’t let me leave.”

“I will set you free of this, Odaren,” she said, gripping his hand. He looked at her with hooded, empty eyes. “Odaren, you will get free. I promise. You are not alone.”

Jessa waited with bated breath, hoping her words would not set him off again. She waited for what felt like hours. And then, at length, Odaren nodded.

Jessa couldn’t waste any more time. With a final squeeze, muttering that she needed to go – Odaren had already turned to stare again at the corner, not caring – Jessa stumbled out of the room. She searched the room frantically, but her guide was not there. She made a few steps into the room when her hand and head joined each other in a dual assault. She bent over, clutching her head with her free hand, crying out. The world turned upside down, inside out, went as red as blood. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t feel herself, except for her left hand which shook and ached and ached. Somehow, despite the agony, she heard people shouting frantically. Someone touched her burning head and she flinched away. More voices. More pain. She was on fire, she must be. She shrieked in agony, and then she felt nothing at all.

[Rosabeth]

It was not a pain Rhys thought he could endure, and yet Venya did not move an inch. Through the screams and the struggle, the anger that radiated from Tristan, Venya sat against the cold stone walls and waited. For what, Rhys wasn’t quite sure. Recognition, perhaps, though it became quickly apparently whatever memories the real Tristan held were buried deep. Perhaps even she did not know what she waited for so patiently. For hours she watched Tristan, face streaked with tears, until he’d given up on the cries for help and his wrists bled from the ropes that bound him. Were it not for Asha, Rhys doubted the woman would ever have left.

In truth, it was a relief to see her go. Throughout the visitation Rhys had hovered just outside of Tristan’s eye-line, for every time the man caught a glimpse of Rhys his demeanor altered. Calmer, still, and silent, he watched Rhys with an unsettling focus the likes of which Rhys had never seen. To capture Rhys had been his very last assignment, and it became increasingly clear that he cared about nothing else, much to Venya’s grief. To see the look on her face when they’d entered the room and Tristan looked straight past her, his eyes fixated on Rhys with an unsettling intensity, felt like a crushing blow. With her gone, at least that sorrow was lifted, and with it the imaginings of a reversal of fortunes. It was not too much of a stretch to imagine someone else struggling in those ropes, someone with red hair…

No. He would not think of that. Anything was better than that.

Rhys paced the cellar hallway with a vial clutched in his hand. They tried not to dose the mages too heavily with moerlin, instead restricting access to the cellars to only mages and those with blood amulets, but there was always the concern of ‘what if’. Much to Rhys’ dismay - though not to his surprise - Lord Tallus’ cellar hadn’t exactly been rife with an array of items for the perfect kidnapping. Without shackles to bind the mages, ropes offered Rhys only temporary comfort. How long would they hold? How long until the mages found some way to escape? He did not doubt that it was only a matter of time, should they be allowed to remain conscious. Until now they’d shown no signs of violence, not that they were capable of it in their state. Still, something in the way they watched him, calculating, sizing up his every move, was more than enough reason enough to keep the moerlin held tight. Even as his footsteps echoed throughout the cellar, Rhys could feel them listening. Knowing. Waiting.

Rhys paused, letting his hand rest on the wall. All the little noises of the mages shifting about, making yet more failed attempts at freeing themselves, stopped at once, like the scattering of birds in the presence of a hawk. Surely it would be the same sight as last time, but the silence made Rhys antsy. He needed reassurance that what lay just out of sight was not an ambush waiting to happen, no matter how unlikely the scenario. Though unnecessary and unpleasant, Rhys found himself turning that corner, coming face to face with the one person he least wished to see.

Tristan looked up from the floor with a dead stare. Blood stained the rope that bound his wrists, but he seemed to neither notice nor care. He sat straight, back flat against the stone pillar behind him with his shoulders rolled back as if at attention. Unnerving. Rhys approached slowly, patting at his chest to feel the blood amulet beneath his shirt, the feel of it sending a wave of relief over him. But the blood amulet was not all that was there. A familiar ring pressed against his skin, a reminder of his purpose, and of all that was at stake. His eyes then turned to the matching ring on his finger, a reminder of a promise he had made. At the time, that promise had meant nothing, an empty vow made to fulfill an obligation. How things had changed.

“Don’t bother telling me to let you go,” said Rhys as he continued his approach, stopping a safe distance away. “It’s a waste of your time and mine.”

It became immediately clear that Tristan was not in the business of talking, though his eyes at least suggested he heard Rhys’ words. Tristan glanced up and down, looking first to where the blood amulet hung and then to Rhys’ hips, searching for a weapon. How the man expected steal a weapon and fight in his condition was beyond Rhys. It seemed that Tristan too came to the same conclusion, his chronically neutral expression turning into a frown for a split second.

When Venya spoke it was as though she was simply not there. Tristan avoided even the most basic eye contact, utterly disinterested as Venya told stories of their history, trying to trigger something, anything, from the shell of a person before them. Coming from Venya the words had been meaningless, but maybe coming from Rhys it would be different. It was ludicrous to even entertain the idea, one Rhys knew would fail without needing to test, but at least it was something. Something was the best he had. He felt stupid before he even opened his mouth, but he knew he must try.

“That woman who was here earlier - the one who sat with you - do you remember her? Her name is Venyisha. You call her Venya. Last winter you went to Antascia with your father on a trading trip. When you got to the market at port a young woman tried to sell you a necklace you could give as a gift to a wife or lover. You bought it, but you didn’t take it home with you. You came back the next day and gifted that same necklace to the merchant. You visited her at her stall every day that week. Surely you must remember some of this?” Rhys fumbled over his words, unsure if he’d heard to story correctly. Though Tristan’s eyes never flickered away for even a moment, his rapt attention seemed to make no difference. That soulless stare went on and on, never showing any sign of the man within. Rhys sighed, letting his shoulders slump as he began to pace once more. He’d known it would be a fruitless effort, yet speaking to Tristan was like speaking to a wall. If Tristan truly heard and remembered, whatever magic controlled him repressed any recognition exceptionally well.

“Rhys?”

Though muffled, he recognized the voice. Selene stood at the top of the stairs, peering down into the darkness. “I thought I’d come check on you, see how things are going.” Rhys took the steps two at a time, pushing Selene through the heavy door and into the upstairs hallway before she could take a single step. “They’re not all drugged right now,” he warned. “You don’t want to be down there, not without protection.”

“How are they?” asked Selene.

Strange. Terrifying. Odd. Somehow, these were not the news Rhys thought Selene wished to hear, so he went with the other truth. “Fine. Surviving. About what you’d expect, given the circumstance.”

Selene nodded, biting her lip. “And Venya?”

“Coping badly. I think she thought that she’d be able to talk him out of it, that when he saw her he’d just…snap out of it. I think she hoped there’d be another way than…this.”

“And is there?”

Rhys sighed. “No. I really don’t think there is.”

Selene rubbed at her head. “I think what you’re trying to do here is noble and all in intention - I really do - but you only just met this woman. This is a very big undertaking for someone you barely know, and all because she healed your mother. I understand you feel a certain moral obligation because of that, but isn’t this a bit extreme? You can still back out. You can keep Tristan safe, let Venya see him, but maybe you should wait until you have something to go off a little more substantial than a half-formed plan.”

“There’s no time for that,” Rhys muttered. He’d lost track of the days in all the chaos, but surely the Lanis’ were near Ovis. There was no telling how long Miriyam would scheme in Ovis, how long she would toy with her undoubtedly compelled allies, how long she would stalk the du Renes waiting for her ideal opportunity. There was no time to waste, not when time might run out at any moment. “I need Tristan now, not in weeks or months. He’s the only one I can trust who can find that spell.”

Selene gaped, and in her struggle to piece together Rhys’ words into something coherent, Rhys realized what he’d never said. But as Selene’s features morphed with a gradually dawning incredulity, Rhys knew she’d reached the correct conclusion without him. “Oh, no, no you’re not serious.” When Rhys said nothing, Selene let out a low, breathy laugh, devoid of all humor. She closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head as the laugh became sharper, yet somehow utterly empty. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Selene, you have to understand I’m out of options here.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, that same cold laugh escaping once more. “You’re being selfish. I thought you were doing this out of gratitude, or out of some moral compulsion to help the mages, but you never were, were you? You’re doing this so you can use them.”

“I am trying to help them,” Rhys snapped. “Don’t tell me I don’t care about what’s happening to them.”

“Well, you don’t care enough to protect them!” Selene swore under her breath, her voice a quiet hiss when she spoke again. “And who are the other two, hmm? Do you even know who they are? What their names are? I thought you took them because they were there, because you had the chance to save them. But no - you took them so you could use them as test subjects, didn’t you?” Rhys looked away, knowing the motion would only confirm Selene’s assumption but unable to lie to her. She said nothing, only nodding to herself, her lips pressed in a thin line. “I thought better of you, Rhys. I really did. But this?”

“What am I supposed to do? I need this to work. I need him.”

“Find someone else you don’t have to potentially kill? Gods, Rhys, do you hear yourself? Do you know how desperate you sound?”

“I am desperate! Do you think I don’t know?” Rhys could feel himself unraveling with every word. He paused, breathing deeply as he twisted his wedding ring on his finger. “If there is any chance of finding a way to stop Miriyam I need to find it, and I need to do something about it. Am I supposed to just let Jessa die?”

“I didn’t say that, but-”

“But what? Please, if you have a suggestion I’m more than open to it. Do you really think I want to do this? Do you think I enjoy this?”

“You don’t hate it enough to not do it,” she grumbled.

“Because I would do far more than this, Selene!” Though he knew the words to be true, it was in saying them that he felt his own conviction. There was guilt there, certainly, prodding at the edges of his conscience, but it was like the flicker of a candle beside a wildfire. “Where is this moral obsession coming from? You know me better than anyone - you have to understand how I feel. Besides, when have you ever been the moral judge of my action? It’s not exactly like you’re morally upstanding either. Your parents were always complicit in everything mine did and you know that, and with them gone now you are too.”

Rhys regretted his insensitive words the moment he spoke them, but his anger made him far too stubborn to take them back. If the jab stung Selene gave no indication, responding with no more than an eye roll and pursed lips. “Don’t act like every person who signed your family’s blood book didn’t know full well what they were getting themselves into. I may not always agree with the choices your family - or mine, for that matter - made, but at least the people involved had some say in the matter. They made their choices. These people didn’t, Rhys. They have no say in his experiment you’re roping them into. They are completely at your mercy and you’re abusing that power.”

“Don’t you think if they could have a say in the matter, they’d want out? Do you really think they enjoy being slaves?”

“That’s the point, Rhys - you don’t know. You just think you’re right. Maybe they’d rather live, no matter the existence. Maybe - just maybe - you’re wrong. This isn’t for ‘the greater good’ and you know it. This is you taking a wild, dangerous chance to serve your own ends. At least have the decency to own up to that.”

It was like talking to a wall. He would have thought of all people. Selene would understand. Selene, who knew his ever secret, who’d seen the good and the bad and everything in-between. Yet as they stared at one another Rhys felt only emanating disappointment. Sooner or later, Rhys knew he’d come to feel some sort of guilt over the situation, but as it stood he felt nothing of the sort. She should have understood.

The icy tension broke as Selene turned her back and started down the hall. After two steps she stopped, turning back toward Rhys. “I’m done; I will not have any part of this. Do what you want, Rhys - Gods know you always have. Let me know when you’re done with this horror show. Just make sure than when things go wrong as they inevitably will, you’ll at least try to feel some remorse.”

***

He’d told himself he wouldn’t. All those months he’d kept true to that self-promise, never entertaining the notion for more than a moment, only to find himself standing in the door frame, drink in hand. He should have known better than to drink when upset, and certainly not alone; experience should have been warning enough. But if Rhys knew anything about himself, it was that he rarely learned his lessons.

Rhys half expected Jessa’s room to be nothing more than the bare furnishings, emptied of all her belongings long ago. Another part of him expected a layer of dust an inch thick. Instead, the truth painted a very different picture. A fool moon glowed outside, casting enough light to illuminate the room without the need for a single candle. The large bay windows sat ajar, filling the air with the cool, salty ocean breeze. Far from dusty, the room looked immaculate, the fireplace cleared of ash and recently stocked with fresh wood, the bed made, and the seemingly thousand books organized neatly on the selves that lined the near wall. Though clearly too clean to have been lived in, and the utter lack of books lying about an unambiguous sign of Jessa’s absence, it still made Rhys smile. Someone had kept it up; someone had left it there for her should she return. It wasn’t difficult to guess who that might be. If he remembered anything about the night in the morning, he’d be sure to thank his mother.

It would just be a minute. That was his rationale. Yet as Rhys meandered slowly throughout the room, letting his fingertips graze the book spines on the shelf, it became apparent that was not going to happen. When he reached the armoire, that thought was nothing but a distant memory. He was opening the doors before he knew what he was doing, looking at a neatly folded pile of brilliant emerald and turquoise silks, airy chiffons and linens, dresses he remembered from the streets of Asanos and the palace gardens of Kolonis. Atop them lay a simple linen shift - a night dress. He wondered if it was the very one she’d worn the night he’d told Jessa he loved her. The memories brought a smile to his lips, yet they felt so distant, like watching through a fog. The details muddled together into little more than a feeling of warmth, of happiness. Maybe it was the alcohol blurring his mind, or maybe it was simply time, indiscriminately eating away at even the fondest memories. Maybe that was why he’d come, to have some reminder of it all as more than a foggy memory. More than that, Rhys realized, was the evidence of all he had to lose.

“What are you doing?”

Rhys barely managed to escape smashing his fingers in the armoire as he slammed the doors shut. Anja watched from the door frame, barefoot and hugging a shawl over her night clothes. “Nothing,” Rhys mumbled, hurrying away only to find himself stumbling like a drunken fool. Anja snorted, her eyebrows raised so high they looked as if they might fly right off her face. “I’m just…” Rhys sighed, sinking onto the foot of the bed and rubbing his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Drinking, it looks like.” Anja’s eyes wandered toward the wine bottle sitting on a nearby table. “Give that here.”

Rhys lurched forward instinctively, putting himself in Anja’s way. “What, are you mother now?”

Anja grimaced, storming into the room and snatching the bottle from the table. “I didn’t say I was cutting you off.” Tipping the bottle back, what was meant to be a long drink quickly turned into a sputter as she began to cough, staring at the bottle in disgust. “That is not wine. Oh my god, what is that and why is it in a wine bottle?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know. Maybe father thought putting it in a wine bottle would keep us from stealing it? It didn’t work, obviously.” With that Rhys took the bottle back, taking a far more measured drink than Anja. The tingling burn as it slid down his throat awakened him for brief flash of time, only for the warmth it spread throughout his body to lull him once more.

“Pilfering father’s study and drinking alone?” Anja tsked her tongue, slowly shaking her head. “I haven’t see you do this since you heard about the betrothal last summer. Something’s wrong.”

This was neither a conversation Rhys wanted to have with Anja, nor was it one he could properly articulate in his state. Very quickly, deflection became the prime choice. “What are you even doing up right now?”

“Sleep isn’t exactly my favorite hobby at the moment.” Pointedly, Anja angled her face toward the open window, exposing her right cheek toward Rhys. Long, red welts marked her faced and neck, trailing down to her collarbone. A matching set on her arms peeked out from under the shawl, just as angry and swollen. Fingernails, Rhys realized with a start. “I figured you’d understand why.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Anja pulled the shawl tight, staring out the window with furrowed brows and tight lips. “I’m sick of everyone looking at me like I’m going to lash out at any moment. Did you know father had my room confiscated? Nothing that could be used as a weapon is allowed, though I have to say it did raise my morale a bit. The number of items he seems to think I’m capable of weaponizing is of the highest compliment.”

Once more Rhys apologized, and once more it felt empty, used - a platitude Anja had heard a thousand times. Rhys did understand, and no amount of alcohol could hamper the soberness the thought of it. “You seem better, though. More…alive. You’re out of bed, at least. And talking. Talking is good.”

“Out of bed for now,” Anja muttered, though Rhys saw a smile smile toy at the corners of her lips. She reclaimed the bottle as she sat down beside Rhys, eying it suspiciously this time before gathering the courage for another drink. Rhys watched her wince at the taste, though it hardly seemed to deter her. “I’ve seen better days. I’d be better if people stopped looking at me with pity all the time. I figure once I’m back to full strength they’ll stop, once they’re afraid of me again. But, unlike you, I’m not currently drunk and am capable of remembering things for more than ten seconds, so you can stop dodging my question.”

He did not appreciate the snide remark, but the energy to bicker back was long gone. Rhys merely sighed, resting his arms against his legs as he stared at his clasped hands. “Selene and I had an argument where she more or less called me a selfish, immoral ass, though obviously more eloquently than that. The thing is that I think she might be right.”

Anja let out a breathy sigh. “Are you seriously upset about this? Really? Gods, what happened to you?” Anja shook her head, looking almost disappointed. “Besides, if you’re looking for opinions on morality I hope you know you came to the wrong person.”

“When father and I went to meet the mages he told me to kill the rest when he went to go find you. I…well, I didn’t.” As Rhys spoke, Anja’s slouch turned to perfect posture in an instant, watching him through narrowed eyes. “I kidnapped the three injured ones and took them to Ero’s house. I think I might have a way to break the spell that binds them to the mage ring. However, there’s a good chance it will kill them in the process if I’m not careful.”

It was impossible to not feel like an utter idiot when fixed under the scrutiny of Anja’s stare, the stare saved solely for these occasions. This time, however, was different. Her signature cocked brow and look of disinterest gave way to a frigid, almost frozen posture, only her eyes betraying her slowly brewing anger. “You’re joking, right? You actually think I care about the morality of the situation? I’d slit all their throats if I got the chance. The fact that you’re willing to try to help them at all is already more than they deserve.”

“I’m not really doing it for them, though. One of them is fluent in both Etrenian and Antascian. I need him to find and translate that spell I’ve been looking for. I know I have no right to experiment on him, and I know I’m wrong for taking advantage of the desperation of the woman he loves, but I need him. I need a lead. Jessa’s life could depend on this and I just…I can’t back out now, not when I have this opportunity.”

“Oh, stop justifying yourself to me. It’s unnecessary and annoying.”

He expected no less from Anja, but her validation hardly helped sooth his guilt. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Selene is usually right about these things, though. I trust her judgement. And she was mad - gods, she was mad. She’s never yelled at me like that, not the entire time we were together. What if she’s right? What if I’ve gone too far? What if I’ll ruin everything? I mean, if Selene took it this badly then what will Jessa think when she finds out? Oh gods, she can’t find out. She’d never support this.” Rhys could hear himself babbling but couldn’t seem to stop it. He cursed the drink in his hand, knowing it was the culprit who betrayed his ability to speak coherently.

He could feel Anja’s eyes on him, watching, judging, looking as though she might slap him if he dared utter one more word. When her hand came to rest on his shoulder, Rhys could not hide his own wince, much to Anja’s irritation. “First off, I’d like to point out that we’ve got a bit of a pot-calling-the-kettle-black situation here. Maybe Selene forgot about her selling you out to the king, but I didn’t. So maybe she’s projecting her own ‘moral failings’ onto you. I never did think she was cut out for this, but then again, neither were you, so maybe you two are a perfect match. You always did give her too much credit; you could never see any bad in her.”

“Projecting?” Rhys mused, ignoring Anja’s slight.

“You’ve been gone a while, Rhys. Selene hasn’t exactly been enjoying her time as Lady Gaille. I don’t think she realized just how closely her parents worked with ours - and the gritty reality that entailed - until recently. She’s made some decisions that would make even you squeamish. I know - I was there. I think the whole situation’s been giving her a bit of a complex. Like I said - projecting.

“Now look, put Selene aside for a minute. I’m going to say this one time and one time only, and only because I think you’re probably going to get drunk enough you may not remember it in the morning. There are two things Marinons care about above all else - family and duty, in that order. When I found out you’d gone to Ovis, I knew I had to help you. Do you know how many people I killed getting you out of that cell? Do you know how many of them probably didn’t even know what was going on? And now, when I was in trouble, you and father came for me even when the odds were stacked against you, and you went to any lengths necessary to do so. That’s what we do, Rhys. We help our family, no matter the cost. And as much as I hate saying it,” Anja sighed, looking bitter, “Jessa is your family. She might have a nonexistent backbone and doesn’t understand the concept of loyalty-”

“Anja.”

Anja held up her hand. “I digress. Look, I don’t have to like her, but I know you do. I know how much you love her, and when we were in Ovis…” Anja winced as though her words caused her pain. Knowing her, saying anything positive probably did. “I could tell how much she loved you too. So look, I get it. I get the need to protect the people you love, and I get being terrified of losing them. I’m terrified of losing you. So you know what I think? I think you should stop caring what Selene and her moral complex thinks. Who cares if you have to spill a little blood to get what you want? What do you think will be the easier outcome to live with - being satisfied with your high morals and outstanding appreciation for the value of human life, or Jessa being alive?”

There was no need to vocalize an answer they both knew; there had never been a question. Selene’s condemnation still plagued him, though her words did not sway his resolve an inch. Instead, they ate at his conscience. Not so long ago it would have been easy for him to look past those concerns. In truth, it was still easy, uncomfortably so, but they still stuck. It was too much, these two warring parts of himself. Far too much for a drunk man.

“I feel like I have the forces of good and evil whispering in my ear,” he groaned.

“Let me guess which one I am,” Anja snorted.

“You’d be insulted if it was the other way around.”

“Of course I would.” Rhys could see another thought forming behind Anja’s eyes, her lips pursed in that certain way she did before she wanted to say something. He watched her take an impressively long drink, assuring him that whatever she was about to say was not comfortable for her. “If we’re being honest here, I can’t say I’d be heartbroken if I never had to see Jessa again, but if she left you over this of all things, then she’s a fool and she doesn’t deserve you. Not that I don’t already think she doesn’t…”

“You can stop now,” Rhys snapped. Anja grinned, always happy to see him bristled. “I’m not really sure how much weight I should put on the opinion of someone who once threatened to kill her-”

“Oh, but you seem to put so much weight on the opinion on your former lover who nearly got you killed!”

“-but I appreciate it regardless. You’re not half bad, you know.” Rhys nudged at his sister, and he could almost glimpse a smile briefly flit across her face.

Suddenly Anja’s expression turned to discomfort as she looked around at the bed on which they both sat. “Am I going to have to go burn my clothes? Did you ever…” she eyed the bed pointedly, trailing off to leave Rhys to finish her thought.

“Ugh, gods, conversation over. We’re done here. Get out.” Rhys pushed Anja off the bed as she swatted at his hands, sticking out her tongue. She shoved back, far too forcefully for Rhys’ impaired balance to handle, sending him flat on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was soft, comfortable, and Rhys felt his eyelids growing heavy as the alcohol lulled him toward sleep. He closed his eyes, unable to resist.

“Do me a favor and don’t remember this in the morning,” Anja spoke from somewhere in the distance, her voice accompanied by the clinking of fingernails on a bottle. “I’d rather not have it have it known that I ever said anything even remotely nice about Jessa.”

“Your bar for ‘nice’ is set extremely low,” Rhys mumbled, though he could barely discern his own words with half his face pressed to the bed.
“Goodnight, Rhys.”

Rhys opened his mouth to reply, but sleep took him first.

***

"He'll come, Rhys."

Three hours. That's how long Rhys had anxiously awaited nightfall, pacing until he grew tired of it, fidgeting in his seat until he began pacing once more. During his pacing episodes Nina threw him disparaging glances at each pass. Lounging sideways in an oversized armchair beside the fire, leisurely puffing on a pipe, she somehow managed to exude a state of calm Rhys could not comprehend. Their only companion was a rather uncomfortable Lord Tallus reading quietly in a corner, occasionally peering up as though he might chastise Nina's bad manners only to look away when she'd meet his look with a challenge in her eyes.

"You told him the right time?" Rhys asked again, Nina groaning at the fourth iteration of the question in the last twenty minutes.

"I will pull off your stupid blood amulet and sedate you myself if you don't sit down." Nina snapped, sticking her leg out to trip Rhys as he passed once more. "Gods, you're making me anxious just watching you. Yes, he knows the time. Yes, he's coming. Do you have no faith in me at all?"

"Well, seeing as I don't know this person at all,” Rhys snapped, earning a reproachful look. “Are you sure Tygan and Kelire aren't coming?"

"I believe Tygan's exact words when I asked were, 'that is a terrible idea,' so no, I wouldn't put any money on it.”

It was hardly comforting to entrust their secret with a stranger to Rhys, particularly a man who by Nina’s own description had not been the least bit deterred by the grisly details. Yet desperation did not sit well with Rhys, and so he bit his tongue. This was what he got for his impulsiveness; perhaps it was divine punishment.

Without so much as a knock, the great wooden door before Rhys swung on its hinges, the handle banging into the wall hard enough to puncture the wall. Ashes spilled into Nina’s lap as she jolted, swearing up and down as she jumped from her seat, furiously brushed away a few embers. The man standing before them, sheepishly peeking around the door to assess the damage, was certainly no stranger, and certainly not Nina’s contact.

“Sorry,” Victor said, rubbing at his neck. “The door is lighter than it looks.”

“You came!” Rhys exclaimed.

Victor clapped Rhys on the back with a grin. “You didn’t think I’d let you do something this ill-advised without me, did you?”

“And the others?” Rhys almost dared not ask, but the question slipped out before he could think better of it.

Victor frowned, leaning in and lowering his voice, not that his voice was capable of being hidden. “Well, Ero’s still…you know…” Lord Tallus coughed in the corner, and Victor gave a pained smile, “He’s still a bit touchy about the whole thing. Freya’s, unsurprisingly, with him. And Selene, well, she did tell me to deliver you a rather colorful message but I’ll spare you details. After all,” Victor coughed, raising his voice with a pointed look in Nina’s direction, “we have children present.” It was unlucky for Victor that Nina stood so abnormally tall, for it made it easy for her to stride over and smack the back of his head.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Rhys said as Victor nursed his head, throwing glares Nina’s way. “It’s not going to be fun.”

“Your plans rarely are,” Victor joked, though his expression quickly turned serious. “I know I’m not really needed, and I know I probably won’t be very helpful. I also know why Selene bailed, and I can’t say I entirely blame her. I’m not exactly completely on board with this myself. I can’t let you do this without support though, and if that means I have to be here then it is what it is.”

It was hard to know quite what to feel between the shame and the relief, but Rhys settled on gratitude. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

“Eh, what are friends for? Besides, don’t thank me just yet. Wait until it’s over for that.”

Their conversation was cut short by a quick rap on a far away door, echoing through the halls. Rhys ushered both Nina and Lord Tallus to sit as he went to greet their new partner. He did not know what to expect of the man he’d heard very little of, but whatever he’d expected was not what he found as he opened the door.

“Lord Rhys.”

Tygan and Kelire stood on the doorstep, Kelire carrying a large leather case in her hands. Before Rhys could call for Nina the girl bounded up behind him, skidding to halt.

“But you said-” Nina began.

“We still think it’s a bad idea,” said Tygan. Rhys was sure he was not hallucinating Kelire’s pointed look. “However, we thought about it and decided that if you’re going to do it anyway and we can’t stop you, we might as well have some say in the matter.”

“Pragmatic,” Nina mumbled, folding her arms over her chest. “I wish you could have come to this conclusion before I had to recruit someone else.”

Tygan narrowed his eyes, boring into her with an intensity Rhys had known only from his own father’s chastisements. As Rhys beckoned the couple into the manor Tygan took Nina’s arm, pulling her aside as they walked and speaking in a sharp whisper. “Finn, Nina? Really? You know better than that. That boy is hardly reliable, and he’s far to comfortable using mind control.”

Rhys never heard the rest of the argument, for the moment they returned to the sitting room all went silent. There was a new visitor among them, one standing stock still in the center of the room with her back to Rhys, hands resting on her hips as she stood before a towering Victor.

“Lady Anja, we didn’t expect you.” Tygan fumbled over his words, a look of surprise passing between him and his wife as they bowed and curtsied. As though she had not taken notice of their presence until the genuflection, Anja turned, looking the two up and down with mild interest before turning her attentions to Rhys.

“What is she doing here?” Nina exclaimed, matching Anja’s posture as she turned on Rhys, glaring. “Get her out of here! She’ll jeopardize the whole thing!”

“Who even are you?” Anja hissed, approaching Nina until the two women stood practically toe to toe. Though Nina towered half a foot above Anja, it was certainly not Anja for whom Rhys worried, especially not as Rhys’ eyes fell on the blood amulet hanging below Anja’s collarbone. “I have every right to be here. They kidnapped me. I deserve to see what happens to them.”

“This isn’t an execution, Anja,” Rhys muttered, trying to gently pry the two women apart only to be pushed forcefully away. “How did you even get in here?”

“I figured coming in through the back would give me a better chance at not getting a door slammed in my face.”

“How does she even know this is happening?” Nina interjected, her anger turning back to Rhys briefly though her eyes flitted rapidly between both Marinons. “Did you tell her? You promised you wouldn’t tell her!”

“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t! I don’t know how she knows, she must have…oh, no.” Vague memories drowned in liquor floated through his mind, bring back conversations he’d forgotten ever having. Rhys groaned, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead, noting how Nina’s eyebrows flew up as she watched his expression morph with shame. “I may have let it slip last night while we were drinking.”

Victor snorted loudly before bursting out laughing, seemingly the only one who found the situation funny in the slightest. He sobered as several glares were sent his way, biting at his lip to hold in his chuckles. “Sorry, I’m just so used to being the one who does stuff like this. It’s nice to see someone else suffer.”

“Great, just great,” Nina grumbled, throwing her hands in the air as she began pacing. “Hey, maybe next time you could try not getting drunk and ruining your own plans? That would be great.” With a huff, Nina stopped her pacing before Rhys, lips pursed. “You’re not going to get rid of her, are you?”

Rhys could see Anja’s glare from the corner of his eye, knowing full well he did not want to live through the consequences of denying his sister. “Maybe it will be good for her to face them,” Rhys said slowly, trying to speak above Nina’s sudden outburst of cursing. “She can take care of herself, and she won’t get in the way, will she?” Rhys looked to a falsely innocent-looking Anja, her half-hearted shrug hardly filling Rhys with confidence. But there was no time to argue, and certainly no time to start the impossible process of attempting to talk his sister down from something she’d decided on. Nina seemed to realize this too, trudging off toward the cellar in a huff with Tygan and Kelire following in her wake. Though Victor and Anja attempted to follow the others, Rhys gripped his sister’s arm, pulling her back.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” He asked softly. “It’s only been a couple days. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“Yeah, well neither is your idea, so I guess we’re even.” Twisting hard into his thumb, Anja broke free of his grip. She stormed down the hall, pushing Victor out of her way as she went.

A somber stillness permeated the cool cellar as Rhys descended the stairs. The others stood in a clump at the forefront of the short hallway, staring through the stone archway into the first alcove. Venya sat quietly beside a sleeping Tristan, forced into unconsciousness with the help of a tonic. Venya’s thick woolen shawl - bunched up into a large bundle - rested on Tristan’s shoulder, propping up his head as he slept, his restraints unable to allow him to lay. In sleep, Tristan’s eerie veneer - those cold, steely eyes - dissipated entirely. The hard lines of his face softened, his face blank, even serene in a way. No longer a human weapon searching for its target, Rhys could see the humanity there. There, lying bare, was the man beneath it all.

For Anja, if she saw that humanity she did not show it. She’d practically stopped breathing, standing stock still as she stared at Tristan, her jaw clenched. Rhys saw how her fingernails dug into her arms she’d wrapped around herself. She was holding herself back with an uncharacteristic restraint. The only question was how long it would last.

Even under the curious gaze of the others and Anja’s murderous stare, Venya did not so much as peer up at their entrance. Slowly, lovingly, her fingers traced delicate patterns on his cheek. Discomfort pricked at Rhys as he watched her so close to the man. Even in sleep he could not be trusted, not in a manner that would provide any comfort. Yet Rhys could hardly deny her this small thing, not after the suffering he’d witnessed. He could surely not be so cruel. Kelire knelt quietly beside Venya, hugging her to her side and letting Venya’s head come to rest on her shoulder.

As the women embraced, Tygan turned toward Rhys with a worried frown. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Rhys’ answer took no thought. He’d hardened his resolve, leaving his worries far behind. “Yes.”

It was clearly not the answer Tygan wished to hear, but he accepted it with a sigh. “Where are the others, then?”

“Through there and there,” said Rhys, pointing to tow two adjacent archways. “I thought it would be best to separate them. I also made sure not to put them with the wine. We don’t need any broken bottles becoming shivs.”

Tygan nodded to himself before beckoning Nina forward, and then toward the second arch. Nina looked about with confusion, Rhys shrugging at her questioning look, but followed regardless. The tall Novarian sat slumped against the far wall, looking up blearily as the three entered the alcove but too weak to move. “His magic feels strange,” Tygan commented. “Weak. He’s not even trying to use compulsion on me.”

“That’d be the moerlin. We drugged him fairly heavily before you came. He’s quite delirious at this point, and immobile too.”

“Interesting,” Tygan muttered, taking a step closer. “I knew about the connection between the physical and the magical, having helped care for many mages when the pandemic that killed my brother struck when you were a child, but I’d never thought about how that might be exploited. I never had a reason to think that way, I suppose. Nina,” he suddenly called, turning to the girl, “do you think you could take a look in his mind? See if you can find whatever spell we’re looking to remove?”

Nina balked, her eyes growing wide. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Mind-reading is a complicated gift. It requires a great deal of focus and precision. Those same skills will transfer well to this, I think.”

“But…I…I’m sixteen! And you’re old! What did we even bring you here for if I have to do the work?” Nina blustered, her cheeks reddening.

“I thought you were so self-confident. Lost your nerve?” said Rhys, receiving a well deserved vulgar gesture.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t,” Nina amended, glaring, “I just don’t want to be responsible if something…happens. I’ve never done anything like this. Look, I might be cocky but I’m not an idiot. I know my limits.” Her protestations hardly seemed to sway Tygan who merely watched her with an unfazed eye, patiently waiting. When it became clear there was no one to support her reluctance, Nina slouched over with a great huff and groan. “How do I start?”

What passed might as well have been in a foreign language, for it passed over Rhys without a drop of comprehension. There was something unnerving about watching the mages work, how they seemed to need nothing - not even physical touch - to invade the mind of another. As Tygan and Nina waxed on and on in descriptive terms such as “walls” and “layers” that meant little to him when nothing in his surroundings changed, Rhys found himself watching Nina’s face. At times it contorted in concentration at others it looked flat, impassive. Eventually small balls of sweat began to form on her forehead. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her shirt, pressing her fingers to her temples. If something was happening, Rhys could not see it. He did not enjoy the blindness of his ignorance.

“I think…wait, is that…” Nina’s glassy eyes stared blankly at the far wall, her voice sounding as far away as her gaze. “I think I feel it. Gods, what is this? Let me try-“ Nina let out a high-pitched yelp, stumbling back. Tygan reached out to hold her as her eyes refocused, blinking rapidly into the dim light. The others ran in at the noise, Kelire and Venya rushing to Nina’s side as Victor and Anja hovered back with Rhys, looking as confused as Rhys felt.

“Go get her something to eat and drink,” Kelire barked to no one in particular, though Victor seemed to decide the command was aimed at him as he all but ran up the stairs. “Nina, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Nina groaned. Though she tried to shake off Tygan and Kelire’s concern, neither looked convinced. “I was surprised more than anything. It pushed me out.”

Kelire eyed the man speculatively. “He doesn’t look like he’s in much shape to fight off another mage.”

“No, not him. It. The spell. I tried pushing at it, trying to figure out how it worked, how it controlled him - it’s more complicated than any I’ve seen - and I could feel it pushing back. I know how it feels when a mage is aware you’re in their mind. This was not that. The spell has a mind of its own, almost. I think whoever put it there left a little bit of their magic behind. It’s all mixed up with this guy’s magic, though, which is what makes it so confusing. Imagine two vines twisting around each other. It’s almost impossible to differentiate the two. I think this mage’s magic is somehow reinforcing the spell.”

“How is that possible?” asked Tygan.

“How am I supposed to know!” With Nina’s exclamation Victor returned with a tray, quickly ushered over by Kelire. The woman all but forced the food into Nina’s mouth despite the girl’s protestations. The room went quiet as Nina ate, the others all looking between each other with apprehension, all but Victor who looked as though he’d entirely given up on trying to follow what was going on. When Nina finished she faced Rhys with a new resolve, one that seemed to worry Kelire and Tygan. “Are you ready to try this for real?”

Rhys pushed away any residual feelings of apprehension. He felt for the vial in his pocket as he stepped forward, but Kelire was there first, putting her hand up to stop him. “What are you doing?”

“We need to weaken him,” said Rhys, trying to take a step around but being caught in place one more. “Nina told you the plan.” Rhys found himself suddenly aware of Kelire’s eyes narrowing as she glanced toward his pocket. She stepped forward, holding out her hand. There was little point hiding it, but Rhys still felt a wave of unneasiness as he withdrew the vial and placed it in the woman’s hand. He knew he was right to feel that when she recognized the white powder within.

“Arsenic. Are you serious?”

Her exclamation brought Tygan immediately to her side, his horror a match for hers. “There’s no antidote for arsenic - you must know this. What’s the meaning of this?”

“We need something that will hurt him, not just immobilize him. If the spell is this untouchable under such a high dose of moerlin, we need something stronger. Much stronger. I might not know anything about magic, but I do know the basic poisons. Arsenic is powerful and quick-working, but not quick enough it won’t give you time. It’s the only one I could think of that might fit our purposes.”

“So you plan on killing him?” Kelire rebuked. “Because that is what it will do. Is this what you dragged us into?”

“No! Of course not! At least, not intentionally. That’s why you and Venya can help. Healers can remove poison from blood, can’t they?” Though she hesitated, Kelire eventually gave a reluctant nod in answer. “Nina and Tygan can work on undoing the spell while you and Venya manage the poison.”

“Arsenic isn’t that simple. It works quickly, bonding to the blood and tissues. If Venya and I were to miss even a small amount, or if we can’t work quickly enough…” Kelire swallowed hard, closing her eyes. “I’m a healer. So is she. Endangering someone’s life like this is against everything we stand for.”

“You can walk away, then. So can Tygan. Venya and Nina will still help me - they’ve promised me that. It will be more dangerous, but we can still attempt it.” It was a good thing Rhys was an experienced liar, for even he had trouble with the bluff. Without assistance Rhys was fairly certain Nina would attempt no such thing, and there’d certainly been no promise, but Rhys’ confidence appeared sufficient to distract from that fact. Time in silence passed, enough that Rhys began to wonder if Kelire and Tygan may actually leave. Instead, Kelire slipped the vial back into Rhys’ hand and moved to kneel beside the Novarian with Venya, taking the woman’s hand for strength. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

There was still time to reevaluate, even as Rhys approached the Novarian even as he began to unplug the vial. Such a move would be in everyone’s interest, save Venya, and they would all go to sleep with lighter hearts. He could still say no.

But he wouldn’t.

Rhys looked down to Nina, her left hand clasped in Tygan’s, her right balled into a fist. She met his eye then, and with a fierce look - all earlier apprehensions stifled - gave a curt nod. Each other the others responded in similar fashion, and when the last go-ahead had been given, Rhys pried open the mage’s mouth and on his tongue emptied the contents of the vial.

Silence dominated for an uncomfortably long time. To an untrained outsider like himself, it appeared as though nothing at all was happening. The mages sat utterly still, quiet, their only discernible movement being the rise and fall of their chests. For a half-hour - perhaps longer - Rhys, Victor, and Anja lurked near the archway, watching and waiting. When it felt as though it would never happen, the Novarian’s chest rose violently, his stomach contorting. Rhys rushed forward to place a bucket under the man’s chin at just the right moment as he began to vomit profusely. With that, the horror had only just begun.

It went on and on. The vomiting did not seem to cease for even a moment, and by the end of the hour the man had emptied himself entirely, now only continually retching. His body shone with a layer of sweat in the dim light, drenching his clothing. Though the four began with still, tranquil expressions, each mage now sat with furrowed brows and eyes pressed shut, holding so tight to each other’s hands their fingers were white. Nina’s free hand now gripped the Novarian’s shoulder, her nails cutting gouges into his skin. “It’s weakening,” she said through gritted teeth, “but it’s not enough. Kelire, Venya, stop healing.”

“What!” Kelire yelped. “He’ll die!”

“She’s right, Kel.” Tygan maintained a composure Nina could not, but Rhys could still see the struggle on his face. “We’re not getting through the way we need to. We need him weaker or this isn’t going to work.”

It was not as simple as a few words, but with some convincing Kelire relented. At first there was little discernible difference, not that Rhys understood most of what he was watching in the first place. Unlike the start, though, the change did not come gradually. Once it hit, it hit like a torrential storm, the poison violently overtaking his body. Kelire bit her lip, clenching and unclenching her hand in some attempt to hold herself back, pained by the scene which to Rhys looked like nothing more than the suffering of a dying man. Rhys could only hope that whatever Nina and Tygan saw was a more optimistic picture. In the following moments, any residual optimism quickly dissipated.

The seizing came quickly. The Novarian’s whole body convulsed, a thin stream of blood trickling from the edge of his lips as his mouth began to froth. His deep skin began to turn an odd ashen tone, and the moment Kelire’s hand brushed his skin she let out a moan. “Oh gods, he’s gone into shock!” she cried out, gripping at the man’s arm. The words that quickly tumbled from her mouth, barely more than a mumble, were no command or question. They were a Novarian prayer for the dying.

“I think we’re - ” Nina sucked in hard, her eyes suddenly flickering open, looking about as though she’d woken from sleep. Tygan followed in suit, gasping for air as he emerged from a trance-like state. Venya too had withdrawn from her focus with trembling hands, struggling to hold back the tears Rhys could see forming. Kelire alone remained focused, the uneasy quiet that settled over them disturbed only by her quiet prayers. Nina did not remove her hand from the Novarian, nor did she lessen her vice grip on Tygan, staring blankly at the body that had grown utterly still. “His magic…it just…snapped. Gone. Just like that.” She looked to Tygan with wide eyes, and in her face Rhys was reminded of the child she was. “Did…did he…”

There was no need to provide an answer they all knew. Tygan moved to Kelire’s side, wrapping an arm around his wife as her prayers continued. “Darling, stop. Stop. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do for him now.” Though Tygan gradually pulled Kelire away, Rhys knew she’d given up long before when her prayers shifted from those for the dying to those for the dead.

“You were right.” Tygan spoke softly, glancing up at Rhys. “It was working. The spell was breaking down as his magic was losing its power. It just wasn’t enough.”

“How much more time did you need?” Rhys asked.

Tygan shrugged. “I have no idea. A few more seconds? Minutes? Hours? It’s impossible to know under these conditions.”

“But it would have worked eventually?” Rhys felt himself grasping at anything remotely optimistic, aware of how cold and calculating were his words when a dead man lay only feet before him.

“Maybe,” Tygan admitted. He held his wife tighter, her prayers no more than whispers now. “But are you so sure you want to find out?” That the answer to this question was an unequivocal yes was not an admission Rhys wished to speak aloud.

Though no one took the turn of events with ambivalence, it was Victor who appeared the worst scarred, looking as though he might faint. Despite his friend’s unease, it was not him who concerned Rhys, but Anja. She stood so unearthly still, hardly blinking even as Rhys came to her side and rested a hand on her arm. “Anja? Are you alright?” There was no response, only the slow slipping away of her arm as she crept closer to the body, trembling ever so slightly. When she reached the man she lowered herself beside him, her hand slipping into her pocket.

“Anja - ”

The moment Rhys saw a glimpse of the steel blade, he knew he’d made a mistake breathing a word of this to Anja. He lunged forward a moment too late. The knife plunged into the Novarian’s chest, his stomach, again and again until blood coated her hand and ran to the floor. Nina screamed at the sight, Victor yelping, both scrambling away as Rhys grabbed at his sister. There was hardly any resistance as Rhys pulled her away sobbing, her tears obscuring her vision. He held her arms tight to her body like restraints, but Anja dropped the knife without being asked, the metal clattering loudly against the stone. Slowly, her sobs turned to cries, her cries to whimpers, and eventually those too silenced. When all had gone quiet once more, Rhys looked up to find Victor standing uncharacteristically solemn in the archway, watching.

“Are you sure you can handle this?”

Rhys was not.

[Mollianne]

Jessa awoke slowly, aware only of pain. Everywhere, at first, but then it focused and sharpened until she knew that it was her head throbbing and there was a squeezing ache in her hand so acute she would not be surprised if her fingers had fallen off. Despite the pain there was a strange numbness too, as though her hand were too big for the rest of her. It was numb, she realised, in the sense that it didn’t feel like her hand.

There was a soft bed beneath her, at odds with her last memories of a dark, sparse room. She could remember no more than that, and it hurt her head to try. She tried to let out a gasp of pain but she found she could not. She could not move at all. Her stomach fluttered, her nerves jangled; what had happened to her?

Voices. She could hear voices. They were familiar, quiet, to her right. As the minutes – seconds? hours? – passed, the noises became intelligible words.

“Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” There was a strained quality to Laurita’s voice that Jessa had only heard – albeit those times it was even more tense and worried – when Laurita talked of her brother. She faintly heard footsteps, coming closer and then retreating before coming closer again. She wanted to say that she was awake, but Jessa had the strangest feeling that she wasn’t, not quite. The pacing stopped suddenly.

“Come and sit down again,” Ainesh murmured. Even Jessa’s panic was soothed. There was a brief pause, presumably as the pair sat down, before Ainesh continued, “She’s going to be fine. The healer said she would be asleep for a while longer. Jessa’s healing, not getting worse.”

“I know,” Laurita said, frustration lining her words. “I’m just… I can’t do anything. I should never have let her go.”

“We thought she still had another half an hour. If she hadn’t gone to see your brother, then based on what we knew she’d have been fine.” Memories came trickling back: the room she had recalled was one of Nayall’s safe houses, where Odaren stayed. She had visited him. And then, excruciating pain and darkness. A pain unlike any other that she felt its ghost now; she wanted to shrink away, but except to breathe and to listen, Jessa could do nothing but endure. She told herself she must be safe, for Laurita was there. But where was ‘there’?

“Either way, she must have known she didn’t have time to see him. Why did she do it?” Laurita’s voice shook with frustration. “Why?”

“You can ask her when she wakes up.”

“I should have talked to Nayall for her. What could she say that I couldn’t?”

“Laurita, stop. Nayall wanted to speak to her for himself.” There was a pause. “Laurita, please, look at…”

Jessa heard no more, dragged back down into sleep. Her pain mercifully melted with it.

When next she became aware of her surroundings, she was met by a familiar, but these days little heard, sound that cheered her despite her aching head and hand – somehow worse than the last time she had woken. It was laughter. Laurita was laughing. Jessa’s eyes opened, just a crack, for she needed to know why. She had heard such little amusement in the past few weeks, especially as she and Laurita were at odds. The room was thankfully dark but for one corner that was bathed in the dim, flickering yellow glow of candlelight. Slowly, Jessa moved her head to face the light, her cheek pressing against the soft pillow that rustled slightly as she moved. Neither of the room’s other occupants seemed to notice. From her squint, she could make out little other than Laurita and Ainesh sitting close together on a sofa, turned towards each other. There was a stack of cards – squarer than the decks Jessa was used to seeing – on a small table in front of them. They each held a fan of the cards, and as Jessa watched, they placed them precariously on their knees a few at a time. There were still three cards remaining in Ainesh’s hand when Laurita huffed in frustration and threw her remaining cards face down on the table. She shook her head.

“You’re such a cheat, Ainesh,” Laurita declared.

Ainesh smirked and shrugged. “Just using the skills with which I was blessed.”

“Using magic is cheating.”

“I don’t have to use magic to be excellent at sleight of hand.” With his words, he reached forwards and pulled out one of the cards from where he had apparently tucked it into the twist of hair ringing Laurita’s head. He moved back slowly, letting his hand graze Laurita’s ear and jaw. Jessa flicked her eyes away, instead focusing on the fact that there were only two cards remaining in Ainesh’s other hand. When had he done that?

Laurita’s voice dropped lower. “If that’s how you want to play it, I have more than a few tricks up my sleeve.” Out of the corner of her eye, Jessa saw Laurita shift closer to Ainesh. The cards slipped off her knees, scattering on the floor, but she did not seem to notice or care.

This was not a conversation Jessa needed to hear. This was for them, a private moment while they thought Jessa slept. She wished she were.

“Try me,” Ainesh said, his voice equally slow and deep. He’d moved too, so there was barely an inch between their faces.

Jessa groaned, though whether it was because of them or the pain that swelled in her hand she could not really say. Probably both. Laurita was rushing over in an instant, dragging Ainesh with her. “Jessa? Can you hear me?”

“Don’t crowd her, Laurita,” Ainesh said, pulling her back from looming over Jessa. Laurita grumbled, but Jessa noted she did not move away when Ainesh put his arm around her, lightly touching her left arm. They stood so close that his chest almost touched Laurita’s right arm. For a moment, Laurita seemed to calm, but then she took Ainesh’s free hand, clutching it tightly enough that she winced.

“Jessa, answer me,” she said quietly. Jessa realised then that the nod she had tried to give – thought she had given – had clearly not been visible enough. Instead, from Laurita’s perspective, Jessa had just lay there, staring at her. What a strange sight she must be.

“I’m… okay,” she rasped, only realising then how dry her throat was. Laurita squeezed Ainesh’s hand harder, prompting him into action. He extricated himself from Laurita, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek when she turned to him in curiosity.

“Water. And soup. She’s not eaten in over a day. I’ll fetch some for her.” With a final brush of Laurita’s shoulder and a lingering glance, Ainesh left the room.

“Oh, Jessa,” Laurita said as soon as the door shut. She flung herself at Jessa, awkwardly hanging over the bed as she crushed Jessa to her in a hug. Jessa tried to return it, but she felt woozy and weak – presumably from the healing magic Ainesh had mentioned.

“How are you feeling? How’s your head? Your hand?” Laurita continued to babble. Jessa gave up trying to answer her after a few feeble attempts. “You didn’t come back. I was getting so worried. Ainesh told me you’d be fine, but I knew something was wrong. I knew it. What were you doing? Why?”

With that final frustrated and confused query, Laurita fell silent. Expectant. Jessa shuffled to sit up, disliking that Laurita was leaning over and looking down at her. She felt unequal, defenceless. And behind Laurita’s worry, Jessa could feel that the tension that had been bubbling between them for days was close to bursting. She did not want to be lying prone on the bed. “Nayall…” she said. “He said something about Odaren. I thought I could help him. Stop him…” Jessa inched her hand forward to take Laurita’s hand. “…hurting himself. I told him he didn’t need to tell the king my secret anymore, because he already knew.”

“I’d tried that already,” Laurita whispered.

Jessa gave a half-shrug. “I suppose I thought he might listen to me. I’m sure he must recognise me – in a detached sort of way, maybe – because I’m part of his mission. It’s my secret. So, he’d know I’m the king’s daughter. Maybe, unlike you, he’d believe me that I’d know what the king does.”

Laurita squeezed Jessa’s hand, her face becoming pinched as though she was trying not to cry. She sighed. “Thank you – for trying.”

Jessa shook her head. It wasn’t all. There had been a need to see him, that same drive that had once pushed her to discover the secrets of the past when her colleagues had given up for some easier gratification. Jessa could only explain that urgency with her guilt, for what else could it be? Odaren’s fate was her fault. Without her secret, Odaren would not be killing himself to tell the king. But… Jessa watched Laurita. Without that secret, Odaren would still be in the king’s clutches. In neither scenario did they win. But in one, at least Laurita knew where her brother was.

“I’m sorry,” Jessa whispered.

“You didn’t half give me a fright,” Laurita replied, not being able to read Jessa’s mind to know her apology was for something entirely different. Jessa did not correct her.

“How did I… How am I – where am I? I was in the city.”

“You were late – so late. I was about to leave to try and find you. Ainesh had said about your dinner with his family, which you were already late for, by the way, so I guess I thought we’d go there and then I could do something. I pulled open the door just as Alya got there and she told us what had happened to you. There was still nothing we could do from the castle so we left for the Tremonts’ as planned. From there, I switched places with one of their servants, just in case anyone happened to watch for you from a window. Then Ainesh insisted on coming too, saying I was going too fast, not thinking. So I gave him a disguise, and with Alya we headed for you.”

Laurita was babbling. Jessa doubted her friend realised that Jessa had no idea who Alya was, except to guess that she must be one of the mages Nayall had given refuge.

“I suppose, in a way, it was lucky you’d gone to see my brother. From the sounds of it, you weren’t there long. You might not have made it back anyway, and then…” Laurita pursed her lips. “Well, you were. One of the women there was keeping you unconscious and doing their best to prevent the compulsion from doing any serious damage.” Laurita averted her gaze. Jessa’s breath caught in her throat; she was too scared to ask.

“We smuggled you back in a cart, covered by a sheet and a few inches of grain for the inspection at the inner city gates. And we had…” she tapped her head, looking uncomfortable “…in case any of them looked too closely.” Jessa swallowed hard. Those guards were undoubtedly under Alrick’s control as it was; they did not deserve further manipulation, and certainly not on her behalf. But, what was done was done.

“Surely they didn’t sacrifice their grain for this?”

“We’ll get it back to them, Jessa,” Laurita said, her voice soothing. She sat back, wiping her face. “Though I’m not going to lie, there was a moment back there that I considered, just for a moment, that I shouldn’t take you back. We could figure out the ring. Destroy it, break the compulsion-”

“It wouldn’t have worked.”

Laurita stopped, mouth agape.

Jessa waved a hand weakly. “You know I’ve been reading recently. You can’t compel through an object. It has to be done directly. Destroying the ring would just mean I’d be in debilitating pain forever. If I didn’t die first.”

Laurita shook her head. “No. No no no. We don’t know if he can use the ring to find you. How do you expect to get out if we don’t destroy it?”

Despite Jessa’s better judgement, she lifted her gaze to meet Laurita’s. Her friend recoiled, seeing the empty resignation Jessa could not hide. “No, Jessa. No.”

“I haven’t expected to get out of here for a long time. Surely you know that.” Jessa’s voice was quieter than the crackle of the fire on the other side of the room. Laurita certainly heard her, though. Her hand shot out, grasping at Jessa’s fingers and pulling, as if she was trying to physically pull Jessa out of her apathy.

“We are going to get you out of this city, Jessa. Do you hear me? We will figure out a way to, I don’t know, disable the ring. But you will not be here forever.”

“My place is here,” Jessa said firmly. “I can’t meet with the nobles, the castle servants, from anywhere else. My place is here, until Alrick is gone or until I’m dead.”

“Your place is not here.” Laurita sounded near hysteria. She stood up, her chair screeching on the wooden floor. “Your place is with us. With me. With Rhys.”

Jessa scoffed without thinking, turning her head to watch the fire dance in the grate rather than the ire in Laurita’s eyes.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Jessa mumbled.

“That is not nothing.”

“Laurita, please…”

“No, Jessa. I know you’ve just been through something awful, but you can’t react like that and expect me to let it go. You’ve been acting weird about Rhys for weeks. What is it?”

“Nothing, Laurita. Just let it go.” Jessa inched onto her side, pulling the sheets up over her shoulders. A second later, they were yanked back.

“What has he done to you? Your bastard of a father, I mean. What has he said about Rhys? What has he convinced you Rhys has done?”

“Not everything is about my father.”

“No? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. Everything between you and Rhys was fine before you cut yourself off from us. You’ve not even seen him since. Of course Alrick is behind this.” Laurita had moved around to the other side of the bed, crouching down so Jessa could not avoid her gaze. She sighed, and tried to calm her tone as she continued, “I know it’s hard to believe. I know he’s doing this to you. But I need you to see that your father is manipulating you, Jessa. For me, try to believe.”

On the contrary, Jessa could easily believe that Alrick would try to alter her feelings for Rhys. But she knew what she had seen. And she knew that if Alrick was truly manipulating her, Rhys’ betrayal would not still feel like a knife to her heart. She would not still love him. No, this could only be real.

“Jessa, Rhys loves you, and you love him. Please remember that. Whatever he’s making you believe, it isn’t true. He loves you.”

“He cheated on me! How is that for love?” Jessa wanted to take it back the moment the words had burst from her mouth. She could see Laurita’s face. She could see that her friend did not believe her. “I saw him, Laurita. The moment he realised he was free of me, he was off kissing another woman. I saw them.”

“Jessa…” Laurita reached out to take Jessa’s hand, but Jessa shifted away and Laurita withdrew.

“Don’t,” Jessa spat out. “Your face says it all. You don’t believe me. Not even for a second. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Jessa, if this made even a shred of sense, I would be halfway to Jasrah right now to kick his ass.” There was a niggling feeling in the back of Jessa’s mind, something she couldn’t quite place that told her she was fairly sure Rhys was not in Jasrah anymore. But that was impossible. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

Laurita continued, “But Jessa, think about this. When could Rhys have had the time? He was recovering from torture, and then he went off to the army.”

“I saw him.”

“You saw someone who looked like him, and your father convinced you-”

“Laurita, stop!” Jessa was shrill, and her eyes wild. “I know Rhys. I know his smile before he kisses you. I know the way he threads his hand through your hair. I know the way he kisses. No one could have imitated that, and my father wasn’t even there. It was Rhys.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. For the sake of argument, even if Rhys did somehow decide he was free of you – whatever that’s supposed to mean – and didn’t love you, he’s not just going to go off into some other woman’s arms right now. We’re in the middle of a war! He’d just been tortured. I hardly think cheating on you would be his priority.”

For a long while, Jessa didn’t speak. There was little left to say. She couldn’t deny that Laurita was making sense, but she also could not deny what she had seen with her own eyes. “I want to be alone.”

Laurita pressed her lips together. “Fine.” She stood, and headed for the door. Her hand on the doorknob, Laurita turned and said, “Just promise me that you’ll think about this. You know – I know you do – that this doesn’t make sense. Alrick has done something to you, has made you think you saw this, and then all he needed to do was prey on your insecurities.”

“Go, Laurita, please.” Jessa was practically begging now, but she didn’t care. She needed Laurita gone. She could not cry in front of her, not in front of someone who refused to consider that Jessa might be right. Laurita claimed to be her closest friend, and yet she doubted Jessa. She had not doubted Rhys for a heartbeat. “I knew you’d stand by him.”

“This isn’t about sides, Jessa! If you weren’t in Alrick’s clutches, if we didn’t know what he was capable of, I might believe you. If I hadn’t seen Rhys before he went off to that ambush and how distraught he was at the thought of you being alone, if I hadn’t seen him risk everything to stop Miriyam Lanis from killing you, I might believe you. He loves you. He hasn’t stopped loving you for a second.”

“He wants to stop Miriyam because it’s the right thing to do. So many people could die. I never said he was a bad person. He just doesn’t love me.”

“And he’s, what? Lying to me, too? What’s the point, Jessa? What reason could he possibly have to pretend to be so desolate around me?”

“I don’t know!”

“Exactly, Jessa. You’re smart. You know this doesn’t make sense. This is Alrick, Jessa. You need to see that. This isn’t you. The only reason it’s even working is because you don’t think you’re worthy of being loved. You are” She shook her head, pulling open the door. “Please, Jessa, please think about this.”

The door slammed shut behind her. Jessa listened as Laurita’s footsteps faded, and then she broke down. No one believed her. She was alone.

***

When it had become abundantly clear that Jessa was in no state to return to the castle without raising Alrick’s suspicions that her headache and trembling hand was a result of being separated from the ring, the Tremonts had alerted the king that Jessa had come down with food poisoning at dinner. Though they had known the king would likely send someone to verify the claim and keep watch on Jessa, they had – rather foolishly – not expected the spy to knock on the door within twenty minutes of the messenger leaving for the castle. Luckily, beyond raising Jessa’s temperature at the woman’s insistence on examining her, they did not need to fake any other symptoms with magic. Jessa head already throbbed, she could barely move for feeling so weak, and she could easily act feeling nauseous.

The woman did not leave Jessa’s side nor speak to her – not even to say her name – for the full day and a half it took for Jessa to recover from the effects of disobeying Alrick’s mind control. A constant dark presence on the chair beside her, the woman’s dark brown eyes bore holes into Jessa, and on multiple occasions Jessa found herself quashing the need to squirm. It was a stare that made Jessa worry the woman could see right through her. She would be quite happy never to glimpse the woman, her wayward black curls, and those unsettling eyes ever again. Despite it all, somehow Jessa’s humour was not entirely lost and, at her most sarcastic, she had thought being on constant watch was really quite inconsiderate of Alrick. After all, she was quite desperate to talk to Lady Tremont and Priti about the ring and what it could and could not do to her.

It was not all bad, however. Having a permanent shadow meant Laurita had not visited. Jessa knew she would have to face her friend at some point – and she did want to mend the bridges between them that were beginning to crumble – but she was glad of the reprieve. The only problem was that, between Jessa’s pain and their bitter argument, Jessa had not asked about Odaren. She regretted that.

Jessa glanced at the door, but as was usually the case, looking at it did not incite the maid to appear with breakfast. Her gaze drifted to the spy, who was dozing quietly, her black curls falling across her face. Even when the maid did come and Jessa could ask for her to fetch Lady Tremont, they still had to get rid of the woman before they could talk. They needed to meet soon, for Jessa doubted she could impose much longer on the Tremonts without raising Alrick's suspicions further. The informant clearly could not read her thoughts or her memories, but Alrick could do the latter. And, given that her head still throbbed and her hand still twitched, Jessa was worried. There may have been no physical sign of her ordeal when the spy had examined her – other than the shaking Jessa had fought hard to subdue – that did not mean there was no lasting, detectable damage inside her head. It was unlikely she could be so lucky.

The door opened, finally. The maid, Malia, tottered in with a tray of porridge, bread and a precariously balanced teacup. As usual, Jessa noted Malia's skeletal wrists and paper-thin skin. The way her hands shook, almost imperceptibly. As soon as she rested the tray on Jessa's legs, Jessa handed back the bread.

“No, my lady,” Malia protested, as usual. Jessa just held it out firmly until the maid deflated and took the bread silently.

“Promise to share it with your family,” Jessa reminded her gently, knowing that otherwise the maid was just as likely to put the bread back in the Tremonts' kitchen. Jessa wondered if the Tremonts' really were so strict that Malia would fear chastisement when it was clear she both needed and wanted to accept Jessa's offerings without hesitation. Eventually, Malia nodded meekly and turned to leave. Before she could, Jessa said, “Are you able to get Lady Tremont for me?”

The maid nodded and left the room. Jessa settled back against her pillows, studiously focusing on her porridge even though she could see the woman beside her had awoken and was watching her suspiciously. An awkward silence enveloped the room, until the door finally opened and two familiar faces appeared. Lady Tremont and her eldest son, Ainesh's father, came into the room. Lady Tremont hung back, while Darren Tremont offered Jessa an uneasy smile as he approached Alrick's spy. He put a hand on the woman's shoulder, and her eyes flashed for a moment at the impertinence. Yet, before the woman could shrug Darren off, her face went slack. Her eyes no longer seemed to see the room. Jessa's heart sank. Lady Tremont had turned away, her hands balled into fists. She did not acknowledge the woman or her son, despite his farewell, as they left the room.

When the door was shut and Lady Tremont still did not move, Jessa knew something was wrong. She recalled the last time she had been with the Tremonts' and accompanied by one of Alrick's spies. "Can you not...?" She gestured vaguely at the door, uncomfortable even asking such a question. It was a good thing if Lady Tremont could not control people. No one should have that power. But... her son had learned how from somewhere.

"I can." Lady Tremont's voice was sharp and unrelenting. The conversation would go nowhere.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

Lady Tremont lingered at the foot of the bed, staring into the fireplace. "Good, good..." she said absently, though, clearly, she was no longer in the room. Jessa waited, until Lady Tremont blinked and her face cleared. She took the vacated chair, and if there was any hesitation, Jessa ignored it.

"The ring," Jessa started without preamble. Her finger brushed its golden surface. "Do you know if it can have done permanent damage? Will he know if he looks in my head?"

She held out her hand, inviting Lady Tremont to take a look for herself. For an agonising few minutes, Jessa heard nothing but the other woman's slow breathing. Another minute more, and she felt a tingling pressure in her mind. She felt that presence slip through her mind, poking and prodding, until eventually it snagged on something sore and tender Jessa had not noticed before then. Jessa hissed, withdrawing as far as the bed would allow.

That answered that, then.

"Can you hide it from him?" Jessa asked quietly. Lady Tremont appraised her for a long moment before nodding.

"I’ll do it before you leave, when we strengthen the memory block. It won't hold up to much scrutiny. It's not precisely a physical scar, but neither is it the same as hiding a memory. This isn’t my speciality, you know." Sarcasm dripped from her voice, playing up the idea that Jessa was relying too much on Lady Tremont’s skills. Whatever had darkened the woman’s thoughts had certainly passed. She winked at Jessa. “Don’t look so serious. I’m happy to help. If nothing else, my grandson – and all of us – get caught in the crossfire if I don’t do this.”

Jessa dropped her gaze to stare at her bedsheets. If Lady Tremont was trying to reassure her, that was not the way to do it. The faces of this family, who had all become so dear to her, flashed through her mind. How dare she embroil them all in her mess? She had thought only of protecting herself.

Lady Tremont sighed. “No, no. You will not think like that.”

“Stop reading my thoughts.”

“No, I won’t, not if I think you’re being ridiculous.” Lady Tremont leaned back and folded her arms. “Nor should I have to conceal one of the main reasons I’m doing this. You should be reminded of the danger we’re all in. Maybe it’ll stop you from doing something stupid.”

“Like going out into the city without this?” Jessa asked bitterly, gesturing at the ring.

“Exactly.”

“How can I do anything, then? He can use it to track me, can’t he?”

“Yes. And the answer is simple. You can’t.”

“I can’t do nothing. Nayall… I promised a lot of people that I would introduce him to them. And what about his meeting with your friends? I wanted to be there.”

“That’s happening tonight.”

“What?”

“Your friend is bringing him.”

“What about…?” Jessa gestured at the seat on which Lady Tremont sat, wondering whether they did mean for Jessa to stay in that same, confining room with those ever-watching eyes, while they had their meeting. Perhaps they thought it best for Jessa to stay away. She had hardly been helpful in convincing the nobles to consider Nayall’s claim.

Lady Tremont pursed her lips, looking away in discomfort. Despite that, she kept her chin held high as she said, “I think you know.”

“Oh.”

“You really think we’d cut you out of this, when you have the perfect alibi to be here?”

“Stop reading my thoughts,” Jessa said again, though there was no real heat in her words. If it had been anyone else, Jessa might have been concerned. But Lady Tremont had seen every part of her, every crevice and dark corner. She knew how Jessa’s mind worked. She knew everything. It was not as unsettling as it had once been. In fact, it was nice that there was someone in Jessa’s life who just understood, even if they simultaneously disagreed.

“Your friend,” Lady Tremont began, proving she had paid no heed to Jessa’s request. “I can’t claim to know her well, given I’ve met her a grand total of three times, and the second of those she was in a blind panic about you. But you do not only have this old woman on your side, Jessa.” She tutted. “You really should start believing people, you know.”

Jessa, disliking the path the conversation was taking, said, “There has to be a way to disable the ring without destroying it. Do you have any books I can read? I need to do something.”

Lady Tremont’s eyes narrowed, but she let the conversation change drop. “I’ll get someone to bring you one.”

The next while passed in blissful peace. Alrick's informant did not return, allowing Jessa time to read the book Lady Tremont had sent to her. Though she had initially intended only to skim for information relevant to solving her current affliction, within minutes Jessa caught herself properly reading the first chapter on magical object theory. She devoured it, flipping to the next page almost too fast to finish the last words on the page before. It had been so long since she had felt that yearning in her chest, the bubble that threatened to burst if she did not read, read, read. She had not felt that for the longest time, back when her life had been simpler, consumed by history and the burning desire to consume every last drop and hopefully, one day, uncover something lost to time. Perhaps that was all this was; a way to fill that hole. As much as Jessa wanted to lie to herself, she could not. She had been given a book on magic in Novamor, and in all that time she had not felt like this. There was only one reason, no matter how it made her gut twist. She liked this magic. She wanted it, even as it terrified her that it would lead her down her father's path. No matter how many people might tell her that would not happen, she would never shake that fear. She was his daughter. His blood and magic ran through her. She shuddered.

She was about to start the next chapter when there was a knock on the door. Jessa looked up, noticing the long shadows creeping into the room. The sun had begun to dip below the rooftops of Ovis. Without even realising, Jessa had been squinting to make out the words in the dying light. It had been hours.

"My lady, Lord Ainesh wants to see you. He's in the sitting room. If you're able?"

Jessa agreed without thinking. And really, she ought to be able. She might not have left her bed in well over a day, but the compulsion surely should have affected only her head and her hand. If her legs were too weak for her to walk, there was surely something very wrong. Too fast, Jessa sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her vision swam, and it felt like her brain was rattling around in her skull. Squeezing her eyes shut and clutching the sheets in her fists, Jessa willed the pain to go away.

It was her father who had done this to her.

Eventually, she struggled to her feet and opened her eyes. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were the same as those she had worn to visit Nayall. They surely smelled and were crumpled, but after a brief survey of the room, she knew none of her dresses had been sent from the castle. For now, it would have to do. For the meeting tonight – which, she realised, was probably only a few hours from now – she would need to borrow something from Priti.

She left the room that had confined her for the last couple of days. The air in the corridor was fresher, cooler, or at least she tricked herself into believing that was the case. She headed slowly down the stairs and towards the sitting room. The door was ajar, and as she drew closer, she heard voices. But she could not ascertain who was speaking until she was outside the door, about to go in. Ainesh had invited her. The next sentence, perfectly clear, gave her pause. Her hand, poised against the door to push it open, stopped.

“I can’t tell him.”

It had been over a day since she last seen Laurita, and she was still not ready to face her. Yet, she found herself frozen in place. Through the gap between the door and the wall, Jessa saw Laurita pass. She was pacing.

“Does he ever need to know, really? Alrick is doing this to her. If Jessa is so determined to stay in that wretched castle until the end, Rhys won’t even see her until Alrick is dead. Once he’s gone, Jessa will see the truth. Right?” She paused, then said again, more insistently, “Right?”

“I… I don’t…”

“She’ll be alright,” Laurita said more firmly, ignoring Ainesh. “Rhys doesn’t need to know. He needs to stay away from Ovis. If I tell him, I don’t know if I can stop him. He only gave in before because I promised him I’d keep her safe. He has no sense of self-preservation. Neither of them do. Gods, the people I call friends.”

It took everything Jessa had not to turn tail and run. She breathed heavily, trying to calm herself. That Laurita wanted to tell Rhys of this, and that she was still so convinced Rhys would even care, hurt more than there was reason. Or, perhaps, what squeezed at her heart was her comment that Rhys cared. She wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe Laurita. But she couldn't. Surely that was enough to suggest her accusation was true.

She must have made some noise, for the conversation stopped abruptly and she heard footsteps coming closer. In an attempt to hide that she had been eavesdropping, Jessa sprang into action and knocked on the door. It was pulled wide open only a moment later. Ainesh smiled at her awkwardly, but Jessa barely paid attention. Over his shoulder, Jessa saw Laurita. Their gazes locked.

After a long silence, Laurita said, "I should go. I'm meeting Nayall soon."

"No, stay," Ainesh said firmly, drawing the women's attention. They stared at him.

"You arranged this on purpose." Laurita shook her head in disbelief, though her expression did not match Jessa's feelings of being trapped. Instead, Laurita's lips tugged upwards. The amusement vanished pretty quickly as she waved a hand in Jessa’s direction. “Look, she clearly doesn’t want to talk to me. I’m done trying.”

Laurita’s words were a punch to Jessa’s gut. It was everything she feared. And yet, somewhere she knew that this had – at least partly – been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Laurita…”

“I need to meet Nayall.” Her voice was clipped and quiet, and she tried to brush past Jessa before Ainesh grabbed her elbow and gently pulled her back.

“Stop.” Ainesh raised his hands. “You two are friends, and you need to stop fighting now. We have a war to win, if nothing else.” Ainesh breathed in deeply. "Right, I'm going to go and check on things for tonight. You two – talk."

Left alone, the room grew tense, feeling smaller than it had only moments before. Jessa sighed, collapsing into a nearby chair, and glanced at Laurita who was staring at her fingers. Seeing her so uncharacteristically quiet set Jessa's nerves alight. Could they fix this? The gulf between them had been growing for weeks, now, always pushed to one side for some problem or another. They had never truly resolved Laurita's hurt at Jessa cutting her out after Alrick had learned the truth. Jessa had just pretended they were fine, and Laurita had seemed happy to go along with it.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"What did you think I'd do?" Laurita came and sat down on the sofa next to Jessa’s armchair. She perched her elbows on the sofa’s arm, and rested her chin on her hands.

"Exactly what you did," Jessa said quietly.

"Maybe there's a reason for that." Laurita sat up. A fire burned in her eyes, but it extinguished the moment she saw the desolation and loneliness in Jessa's expression. She reached across the space between the sofa and the chair, waiting for Jessa to take her hand. "Jessa, I'm not going anywhere. Just because I think there’s something else going on here, it doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. Do I regret what I said the other day? No, but… maybe I could have been gentler about it.”

Jessa pressed her lips together, at a loss as to what to say. But, slowly, she lifted her hand towards Laurita’s. The women gripped each other’s fingers, and for a moment, Jessa thought things might be okay.

“There never seemed a good time to say,” Jessa said finally. Laurita just fixed her with a sardonic glare. Instead of facing that disbelief, Jessa continued talking to the wall. “And besides, stopping Alrick was more important. Everything else is a distraction. That’s why I hadn’t wanted to talk about it.” It was only partially true, but Laurita did not need to know that.

“Not talking about it doesn’t make it go away, Jessa,” Laurita said sharply.

“I know that!” But, though she knew and accepted what Rhys had done to her, not talking about it had made it less real. Easier to ignore. Now that Laurita knew, there was no hiding from it.

“Jessa.” Laurita tugged on her hand. Reluctantly, Jessa turned. “I just want you to promise me that you’ll think this through. We know what your father is capable of. And we know the bastard’s not above hurting you, his daughter. He made you torture someone you loved. And he knows you’re with us, and that being so close to him makes you dangerous. He will do anything to isolate you, and you do make it easy for him. We love you, Jessa. I need you to believe that. And I need you to tell me whenever you feel like we don’t. Please, promise me.”

“Okay.” Though she spoke meekly, Laurita nodded in acceptance. The desperate intensity cleared from her face as she leant back against the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. Jessa watched her for a little while, only the crackle of the fire and the hustle and bustle of the house preparing for the night’s meeting to break the silence. It was the most comfortable she had been in a long time.

“I should have asked, long before now. How is Odaren?”

“I’ve not seen him so silent and calm since those first few days before he realised the mages couldn’t find him, were not coming for him and would therefore have to fight his way out to finish his last mission. The hold the king has over him isn’t gone, but at least he’s not… trying to kill himself.”

Jessa squeezed Laurita’s hand. Her words had worked, at least. It had not been entirely a waste. Why, then, did it feel like she’d failed them?

***

“You know Laurita already,” Jessa stammered, gesturing at her friend as she tried not to think too much about what the Tremonts thought about the dark man hovering behind her. They were staring at him quite opening, but Jessa could glean nothing from their expressions.

“Yes, of course,” Lady Tremont said, dipping her head and Laurita curtseyed perfunctorily – almost mockingly, for Laurita had never much cared for pomp and ceremony. “Though perhaps the first time in a less… emotionally-charged situation. I’ve heard rather more about you than I’ve seen. Particularly from my grandson.” Her eyebrows rose knowingly.

“All scandalous, I hope,” Laurita said, rising to the challenge with a wink. Ainesh’s father hid a guffaw behind his hand. Laurita smirked at him, before turning more serious. “I want to thank you for your help with my friend here. She desperately needed people she could trust.”

Jessa bowed her head. Lady Tremont chucked. “Luckily, she seemed disinclined to take no for an answer when she first approached me.”

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

“A rare occasion, perhaps,” Lady Tremont agreed.

Laurita stepped aside, turning everyone’s full attention onto Nayall. Jessa cleared her throat. “This is Nayall Gard, our future king.” It was such a foreign concept, so far from the secretive man skulking in shadows that she had meant only a few months ago, but Jessa tried not to stumble over the term. The vultures down the hall would attack any uncertainty she displayed. She turned to Nayall. “This is Lady Angeline Tremont, her sons Darren and Nathaniel, and their families.”

He stepped forth, holding out his hand. Lady Tremont blinked, but it seemed she had heard enough of a commoner turning king and believed in Jessa’s opinion well enough that she shook Nayall’s hand with little other hesitation. If anything, Nayall was the one left wrong-footed.

“What might I expect in there?” He nodded in the direction of the dining room. They heard a door shut, fast. Apparently, some of the nobles had been unable to rein in their curiosity for even a few minutes.

“I won’t say openness, but I have entreated them to at least reserve their final judgement.”

Jessa very much doubted Nayall was expecting this to be anything other than difficult. Laurita had no doubt apprised him of all of Jessa’s mistakes in approaching the subject. Yet, he simply looked ahead with grim determination and said to Lady Tremont, “Lead on.”

No titles, no request, just a simple order. Nayall had not been doing this long enough for it to be natural, but Jessa could not deny the confidence and leadership that exuded from him. He was as good as any noble at pretending importance – and therefore being so.

The Tremonts entered the dining hall first, as the chatter in the room swiftly died. Jessa and Laurita sidled in next, but no one had eyes for them over Nayall standing alone in the doorway. He did not balk as they looked him up and down as one. They took in his hands that, though washed, could not pretend to be a noble’s, and had dirt encrusted in the fingernails that could not be removed with a small splash of water. His shirt was the nicest he owned, but it was faded and fraying at the seams. The mud from the spring rains had been shaken off as much as possible, but streaks and scuff marks still remained. Before Laurita had gone to Jessa, she had explained that Nayall had wanted these nobles to see him exactly as he was.

Nayall held firm even as Lord Raynier – because of course it was him – turned to Lady Tremont in exasperation. “You cannot be serious. He is not fit to be seen!”

Nayall did not miss a beat, stepping forwards before Lady Tremont might speak on his behalf. “And how would you have me dress? I live in the city, as one of Alrick du Renes most wanted, working only for the survival of the people who seek my help. Every penny I have – and believe me, I have very little – goes towards their health and their safety. Even if I could, I would not. I understand a good appearance is important, but it is not above peoples’ lives. And,” Nayall turned more specifically to Lord Raynier, “I have heard of you, Raynier.” The man’s eyes widened. “I can well believe that if I had presented to you in all the finery you possess, you would have called me a liar and my cause imaginary. No, believe me, I am there in the heart of the desolation you both call a city and have all but turned your back on. And so they see me, willing to get my hands dirty and risk my life for them.”

“This is a joke,” Lord Raynier insisted. “Please. We cannot have a commoner rule.”

“You have someone better in mind? Do you know anything of the situation beyond your walls? Do you hear their hateful messages? Do you see the red paint splashed on any surface in reach? ‘Death to the nobility,’ they cry. You are not one of them. You are just another Alrick to them. I am one of them. I know their struggles, and they know that only one of them will ever listen to them above their own needs and extravagances.”

“But what of us? You will ruin this country. We will be overrun by uneducated, dirty peasants if you have your way.”

“Each of them has plenty of useful skills to offer, which I’m sure you’d know if you looked beyond their appearance. They do not have opportunity or your privileges, but if you gave them a chance, they might surprise you. But, in any case, I do not mean for that to happen. You will not lose your positions.” He surveyed the crowd, still twelve strong but no more, and lifted his hands. “Where is your king? I do not see him here, listening to your concerns. It seems one of your own has not left you feeling any more secure or satisfied with your lot in life, otherwise you would not be here. I am here, though. Is that not a sign that I wish to hear your opinions, not just those of the common folk?”

“You want us to support you. We have no guarantee of anything else.”

“Would a guarantee make you believe me? No, you will assume I will go against my word whatever I say.”

Raynier pressed his lips together, caught out. No one else seemed forthcoming to interrogate Nayall, so after a pause, Raynier said, “You have no experience, no education. It would be irresponsible of us to trust you with our country.”

“Experience, yes, I have none. As for education, I may not have had anything like you did, but in Alrick’s mage ring, he made sure we were educated enough to be useful to him. I doubt many of you have had lessons in ruling a country, either. And, since you already know it anyway, I suppose I should remind you that I have the Queen of Novamor backing my claim. I have learnt a great deal from her in my time away. But, hmm, do any of you have Novamor’s queen’s backing?”

“We will not be annexed by that damned queen.”

“You would be, without me. Novamor would be the winners of the war if we have our way, and Etrene would be Queen Tula’s by right. But she would pass that right me, and I do not intend to rule by proxy. Etrene will still be ours, not theirs. But I will not turn down their alliance. Once Alrick is gone and the truth about mages is out, Etrene is going to need a powerful backer in the transition.”

The group began to murmur amongst themselves, but a look from Raynier silenced them. “You said it yourself. People will not react well to mages. How do you think they’ll accept you?”

“I’m fairly sure you’ve already heard this from Jessa. But if you need it from my lips, here it is. Like you, I have and know magic. And better than you, I know the struggle of mages. If I had been in a different situation, I might agree with you. If I had been a noble mage, I would not be surprised if that made it impossible. People would very easily believe that Alrick knows what you are and chooses to ignore it because of your position. Most people will not see that you have been forced to hide and fear for your lives, not with the privileges you have. They would not believe you when you say things will change, that you’ll be different, because you are what they hate – noble. Perhaps they won’t believe me, but I have a better chance than you. And, I think, openly talking about Alrick’s crimes will help people see that I won’t be the same. If I was, surely I do everything I could to keep people from knowing all of magic’s possibilities?”

“None of this explains why we should support you and your supposed claim.”

“I have said already that I am here to listen to you. I am also aware that I cannot do this alone. As you said, I do not have much experience here. You are the ones who own land, have tenants, run businesses. You know politics and diplomacy. I am going to need to surround myself around people like you. Does it not benefit you to be the first of my allies? You will be the ones who were with me from the start. My most trusted. I said that you would not lose your positions, but in fact, you will be elevated. Alrick’s loyalists can have no place as my closest advisors. They will fall with him, and they will need replacing. Who do you think I would look to first?”

The murmuring began again, and this time, no quelling glare from Raynier could prevent the excited chatter in the room. Raynier would get no further chance to speak. Nayall, recognising both this and that no one else’s concerns had really been heard, headed over to the nearest woman without pause. It seemed he would not run out immediately. Lord Raynier, on the other hand, shot the entire room with a look of disgust before storming off. For the rest, it seemed they had taken Lady Tremont’s request to reserve judgement seriously. They listened to Nayall’s responses to their questions with openness, and some even smiled. His forbearance with Raynier’s interrogation had clearly impressed them all, and Jessa had no doubt, despite her missteps, that Nayall had made eleven allies – aside the Tremonts – that night. She knew she should have felt happier about that, but instead she felt an uneasy fluttering in her gut. She could attribute that only to knowing this was not over. They needed more allies, and these would have been amongst the easiest to convince.

Eventually, the evening wound down and the nobles, Nayall and Laurita left. Jessa, now well enough to return to the castle, changed back into her old clothes as Alrick’s informant was brought back from wherever Darren had taken her. The walk back to the castle was silent, the cold midnight air prompting thoughts only of getting inside as soon as possible. Once they were there, Jessa was grateful that it was too late for the king to be there to greet them, and for the informant scurrying off as soon as they entered the castle. Jessa and Ainesh said barely two words when they reached their bedrooms, only sharing a brief goodnight before disappearing into the relative comforts of their private chambers. Jessa pulled the magic book the Tremonts had given her from her bag. She would have started reading, but as she stared at the cover she knew she lacked the focus. Sighing, she tucked under a pile of blankets stored in her armoire, and collapsed onto bed. As she settled, she heard a rustling sound and felt something poke into her bag. She reached underneath her, pulling out a note. Tilting her head in curiosity, she slid her finger under the seal and pulled out the contents. Her heart, already so tender, shrivelled on seeing who had written to her.

Dear Jessa,

I heard you’ve been ill recently. And honestly, I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you since you ran off in the city weeks ago. Please come and visit me. I’ll make you the soup I always brought you when you were ill. For old times’ sake.

Alistair

[Rosabeth]

“No, absolutely not.”

They’d been over it a hundred times, but it had become very apparent that Tygan’s answer wasn’t going to change, no matter how many times Rhys prodded.

“You said you wanted to help, that you knew you’d be better here, doing what you could, then elsewhere knowing this was happening. Doesn’t that still apply?”

Tygan swallowed hard, uncomfortably. “Of course. If there was something I could do I would do it, but what if there is nothing left to do? What if this isn’t something that can be done?”

The first failure had been hard on all of them, but with it came a certain acceptance. It was a testing of the waters, and by all accounts had gone as well as could be expected. Tygan and Kelire had been shaken by the scene, though as Rhys watched them through the next day he could see it unsettle their minds more and more. Still, they’d done all they could, and to an extent Rhys knew they could live with that knowledge. Then came the second test.

Rhys and Kelire spent hours in her apothecary, going over every vial of poison she had, from the weak ones used to force a patient to vomit to those used to exterminate pests on the land. The arsenic had been effective in its duty, yet effective to a fault. They needed something slower, something they could control. After many hours they found one that suited their needs, but something about it did not bode well with Rhys. It was a slow-acting poison, and not one he would have ever chose with the intent to kill. They would need to administer it in great quantities over hours, not minutes. More variables. More ways for something to go wrong.

And it did.

It began simple enough. Just like before, they held the woman down and administered the poison, the mages at the ready for the first sign of danger, and Anja nearby with a dagger drawn, likely too enthusiastic to use it. Yet unlike the first time, the change did not come quick. Hours passed, and though the woman grew ill quickly, doubled over on the ground vomiting into a pail, it did little to her mind. Nina poked and prodded, trying to find some way in, but the magic would not relent. It pushed and pushed, even as the woman’s mind grew weaker. It was not enough. Rhys could see the realization in Kelire’s eyes as the trial dragged into the night. They administered more, and yet no amount seemed to be enough. Though Rhys did not doubt the suffering Alrick’s mage endured as the poison worked its way through her body, it was not enough to kill outright, at least not in any timely way. When the hours grew too long, Venya having taken leave to tend to her daughter and Nina sitting bored and disheartened against a wall, it was Kelire who pulled out that second vial.

“I brought this just in case,” she said, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. Rhys could just barely make out the words on the side, but he recognized it in an instant. This was not a poison with any medical use, and neither was it one he’d seen among Kelire’s things. When he raised his brow Kelire shrugged, shaking off his silent question. She looked to him, and then to her husband, before turning her attentions to the woman moaning in agony before them. Rhys understood immediately. It was confirmation she needed, someone to give her a push into the moral abyss she did not wish to step into.

“She’d just need a little,” she murmured, “but it might…get things moving.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Tygan asked quietly, placing a hand on his wife’s back.

Kelire did not look optimistic. There was hesitation there, and Kelire’s eyes shifted back and forth between the mage woman and her husband. Even his words did not give her the comfort she needed. As the moment dragged on the attentions of the others in the room turned to her. Venya looked on with apprehension, understanding the meaning of the bottle if not the meaning of the words. Nina eyed the vial expectantly, tensing herself as if readying her magic. But it was Anja among the others who appeared nothing but frustrated. That was when Rhys saw the glint of a blade slip out from her skirts.

“Anja!” Rhys’ call was ill advised, he soon saw, as the entire room let out a collective gasp and lurched toward his sister who only avoided the grasp of several hands jutted out toward her with a quick dart backwards.

“Calm down, Gods! I’m not trying to kill her!” Anja held the hilt of the small dagger between her thumb and palm and held it up for all to see as a sign of peace, though the move did little to keep the others from encroaching.

Nina’s eyes were wide and wild. “Oh really? You expect us to believe that after last time?”

Anja was not amused, though Rhys could see a certain guilt in the way she held her expression. “If you give the woman that poison we’re going to end up with the exact same scenario as last time. It’s not working. Accept it.” There were a few murmurs of protest, but when no one challenged the assertion directly Anja slowly put down her knife, taking a step forward. “Look, we need another way to weaken her, something that’s not going to require constant magic to keep it from wrecking havoc. My solution isn’t elegant, and it won’t be pretty, but it might just work.”

The long seconds passed by, turning into minutes, hours. In reality Rhys had no idea how long the others had stared around the group and one another, until eventually all eyes rested on him, waiting for him to make the call none of them could. They were exhausted, frustrated, and in that moment as desperate for success as him. In the end, that was likely why they let him encourage Anja. That was why any of it went the way it did. Had they known what would happen, Rhys did not imagine they would have given the same consent.

The blood poured freely. Anja had been precise, but perhaps a bit too so. The blood came to quick from the long slit on either arm, each dangling into a metal pail. Like a pig at the slaughter, they all watched horror-stricken as the mage bled out before them, Kelire and Venya hovering anxiously nearby as they waited for a sign. Rhys himself stood transfixed at the sight of Nina and Tygan in trancelike concentration, though it was clear even to Rhys that Nina pushed herself harder, letting the magic consume her. He remembered her cries so clearly, sharp utterances of frustration and anger as she inched closer and closer to success. It had almost been enough. Almost. But not quite.

Rhys pressed his eyes shut, not wishing to dwell on the image that now haunted him. The memory, still so fresh, recalled in far too vivid of detail. When his eyes flickered open it was Tygan standing before him, watching and waiting. His eyes are full of sorrow, but Rhys wasn’t sure if the sadness was for himself and his wife or for Rhys himself.

“Look, I’m sorry. Truly, I am,” Tygan continued. “But you’re holding onto some thin hope. I hope you can understand why I cannot continue on like this.”

Rhys looked down with a deep sigh. “I do.”

“Then walk away.” Tygan’s hand gripped Rhys’ shoulder, forcing Rhys’ attention. “This isn’t right, playing with people’s lives like this. If you were anyone else I would tell someone, if only to save you from yourself. As it stands…” Tygan sighed, his hand sliding away into his pocket as he gave a shrug. Rhys had the sense to at least feel somewhat admonished. Being above the law was not something to take pride in. “I can only hope that you will come to your senses. I can urge you to please stop what you’re doing, not that I think it will be of much use. Just let it go. Please. This death isn’t worth it.”

Rhys wanted to agree. He wished he could agree wholeheartedly, that he could put all this beside him and cut his losses. He also knew that he couldn’t. So instead of lying, Rhys said nothing, his jaw tightened as he stared forward, trying to not let his wavering thoughts show. He knew they would only provoke further argument with Tygan attempting to sway him into abandoning his plan. As it stood, Tygan could clearly see that they stood at an impasse. He gave a curt nod, not bothering to hide his disappointment. It reminded Rhys too much of his own father. Tygan turned to leave then, but as it took a step he paused, slowly turning on his heel to face Rhys once more.

“With Tristan…be careful. Venya loves him deeply. Do not needlessly risk his life.”

Rhys frowned.“I wouldn’t. I can’t, really, without her help. And I wouldn’t try to coerce her if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Tygan raised his brow. “It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s what she’d do to you if you cross her that worries me. I know her somewhat better than you, and I know what she is capable of. Don’t let her being a healer deceive you - she will tear you apart with barely more than a thought if you let that man die.” He paid no attention to Rhys’ stony expression, or the lump now formed in his throat. “Good day, Lord Rhys. Make the right choice.”

—

The servant hanging a rack of bows did not dare protest or question Rhys when he strode into the armory, though Rhys saw his eyes widen and brow raise as Rhys beelined toward the back. It was not a part of the armory Rhys had ever held a fondness for, not that he should have. Had it, that itself would have raised concern. While most of the armory was lined with an assortment of bows and blades of every assortment, enough to stock a small militia, a corner of the back held a very different kind of assortment. Rhys felt cold as he walked past a row of brands leaning against a shelf containing several wire garrotes. He did not waste time, finding what he was looking for quickly. The wooden box sat closed on a shelf, and Rhys only needed a quick glance inside at the paper-thin blades to know it was what he needed. Though the box was not particularly bulky, it was not small enough to tuck neatly into his clothes, and so he ignored the inquisitive stare of the servant as he ducked out quickly.

As Rhys quietly ducked through the hallways he took care to quickly peer down each hallway before continuing, to listen for coming footsteps or voices. With his mother bedridden there was little risk of her happening upon him, but there was still his father to concern himself with. Between the set of blades in one hand and the black tunic and pants draped over his arm, he did not particularly answer any questions as to what the items were for. He’d tried to come up with a lie just for that purpose, but even he could think of nothing. The items told their own tale. As Rhys approached his father’s study he took a sigh of relief to see the door shut. It wasn’t until a voice called out the moment he attempted to pass that Rhys noticed a sliver of a crack in the doorway.

“Rhys?”

Rhys’ heart all but stopped as he stood paralyzed outside his father’s door, a million paltry excuses running through his head at once.

“I can hear you - I know you’re there. Don’t make me wait all day.”

Rhys let out a low curse. Why was he cursed to live in a house of hawks? For a moment his eyes darted around the hallway, looking for some dark spot to stash his things, only to dismiss the idea a moment later. It would be all but impossible to set the box down without making any noise, and any delay would only raise suspicion. He was cornered, and the only way out was through.

When Rhys stepped hesitantly into the room his father did not so much as look up from his desk, the fingers on his right hand drumming against his cheek as he scribbled in a ledger. For some moments Rhys stood there awkwardly, waiting for some sort of command or reprimand, yet none came. His father only continued on at his work, acting as though unaware of Rhys’ presence. It wasn’t until Rhys took a few steps forward, standing nearly parallel to the chair that sat across from his father, that the man finally spoke.

“The servants tell me you took a certain set of surgeon’s blades from the armory.”

Rhys balked, staring down at the box in his hand. “How do you know about that? That couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago.”

His father gave a shrug, finally looking up from his papers with one last flourish of his pen. When they met eyes, Rhys’ father looked far less angry than Rhys had expected. Irritation, maybe, but more than anything his father held an expression bordering on amusement. “News travels fast when you pay for it to travel fast. Besides, you have to know I keep a close eye on the armory.” With those words his eyes flickered to the wooden box partially obscured by the draped tunic. “So…what’s with the box, Rhys?”

“Nothing,” Rhys said quietly, knowing it was as pathetic of a lie as anyone could muster. His father knew it too.
“Practicing surgery, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, we knew that much,” Rhys’ father muttered, pulling another stack of papers toward himself and turning his gaze back to his work. “Are you torturing someone?”

“No!” The force in Rhys’ exclamation surprised even him, and he watched as his father slowly looked up from his papers, eyes widened, to stare in disbelief.

“Fine then, no torture. Don’t act so surprised at the accusation. You know what those tools are for. Anyway,” his father cleared his throat, turning his gaze away once more. “Is it dangerous?”

“No, sir.” Not for me, Rhys clarified internally.

“Conspicuous?”

“No.”

“Reckless?”

“Maybe.”

At Rhys’ answer his father watched him curiously, the edges of his lips almost curling into something vaguely bordering on a smile. “At least I’m being honest?” Rhys muttered in response. To his surprise, the words brought the smallest chuckle from his father.

“Well, whatever it is -“ Rhys felt his father’s eyes look him up and down, lingering on the black clothing, “- put down a tarp, and please clean the blades before you return them. Let’s keep things civil.”

The words held about as much emotion as reading off the monthly household ledger, and Rhys could barely move from his frozen state from the shock of it all. “That’s it?Clean the blades? My entire life you tell me not to step out of line and now I’m supposed to clean the blades?

If eye-rolling produced a sound, Rhys’ father’s could have been heard halfway across the city. “Would you like me to punish you, then?”

“I just…don’t get it.”

Rhys watched his father neatly set down his pen, folding his hands atop one another. “In the last year particularly I have learned the very practical lesson that attempting to keep you from doing something is wholly ineffective and benefits no one in the end. With your mother still wounded and this city in shambles and that mess with Anja, I do not have the time or the energy to worry about you getting yourself involved in some problem you inevitably will involve yourself with anyway. You are a man, not a boy, and capable of taking care of yourself. So, I’m taking a new approach. So long as you are not actively putting yourself or your sister in harms way and are keeping your exploits discrete…” As he trailed off, Rhys watched his father raise one hand and make a gesture Rhys had not seen in a very long time - he shooed Rhys away.

There was no need to be told twice. Rhys gave a small bow of the head and backed away quickly, his heart beating quickly. It was a strange feeling. Liberating, almost, yet still surreal. Though he wanted nothing more than to hurry back to the Tallus’ manor, Rhys couldn’t help but linger at the door to the office. His father no longer watched him but had turned back to his work, once more tapping his fingers against his cheek absentmindedly. As Rhys watched he couldn’t help but smile, something that felt so foreign these days. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” was the only response.

—

If anything could shake the temporary lightness Rhys felt, it was returning to a dark and stuffy house, greeted only by three sour-looking people sitting in dead silence. Rhys didn’t bother sitting with them, instead going straight to Nina’s side and speaking in hushed tones. “Can I have a word in private?”

From Nina’s sprawled out lounge and folded arms Rhys expected an argument, or at the very least a groan. To his surprise, Nina straightened immediately, her expression growing serious. Before Anja or Victor could interject, Rhys and Nina slipped out into the hallway. It wasn’t until they were far enough away from the sitting room that Rhys was confident the others could not hear him that he spoke.

“I need you to be honest with me - how close do you think you were to freeing that last woman?”

Nina, hardly one to let her guard down, suddenly averted her gaze, staring down at her feet. “It’s hard to say. Things moved quickly and I…” Her words trailed off, leaving her silent and with a furrowed brow.

“Nina.”

Her head snapped up. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that yes, we were only moments away? I thought that at one point. I really did. I could feel that spell loosening. It was like undoing a knot, and I could feel all the strings loosening, and if I’d only given it a small tug -“

“That sounds pretty confident to me.” Rhys could practically hear the desperate hope in his voice. It was pathetic.

“You have to realize I have no way of knowing if any of those feelings were real. This isn’t something I’ve practiced. I’m going off instinct here, and instinct isn’t always reliable.”

“But you do think you were close?”

Nina groaned, pressing her hands to her eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“Then try to explain it to me.”

“Using magic like this, it warps your perception of the world around you. When I’m in these people’s minds, everything else is shut out. I can still hear you speak - mostly - but it’s from far away, like a whisper I have to strain to hear. I might have felt like I was close, but I don’t know how close ‘close’ is. Time doesn’t mean the same when I’m using my magic. If it wasn’t for you telling me I couldn’t even start to guess how long we worked on either of those mages. A few minutes? An hour? All day? So yes, I felt fairly confident, but I don’t know if that confidence is enough.”

It wasn’t exactly what Rhys had been hoping to hear, but he couldn’t pretend to be in any position to be picky. Confidence was something. He’d seen the look on Nina’s face, heard her cries of desperation in those last moments as she’d struggled to push through, to do the one thing that had yet escaped them. She was young and her magic less refined than someone like Tygan, but still Rhys believed. He’d seen what she could do, and it was something he could put his faith behind. In reality, it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. Faith was all he had left. Nina was his last hope.

Even if he could convince Nina to try again, there were other hurdles to overcome. Rhys pressed his back against the hall, pressing his eyes shut. What to do with Venya? Rhys hadn’t seen the women since the second failed experiment. She stayed in a private room most of the day with Asha, coming out only now and again for food and water. Rhys did not know if she was deliberately avoiding him and the others, and if Tygan and Kelire’s departure had shaken her. The experiment had, at the very least. Convincing her to carry on may not even be possible, though it was difficult to know her thoughts. More than that, Rhys could not shake the nagging voice in his head that chastised him every time he so much as thought about trying to convince Venya to sacrifice Tristan to the whims of fate and the magical prowess of a sixteen-year-old girl. If he was a good, decent man, he would accept things for how they stood. He would not push the subject, would not make Venya even consider something so horrible. He would not put his own selfish desires over those of others.

If the past twenty-six years had taught Rhys anything, it was that he was neither good nor decent.

When Rhys opened his eyes Nina was still there, watching him expectantly. “I need to talk to Venya, to explain things to her, but I don’t think I can. My Antascian isn’t nearly good enough to explain any of the complexities of the situation. It’s not like I ever learned any magic vocabulary from my tutors. But…maybe you could.”

Nina gawked. “Do I look like I speak Antascian?”

“No, but you’re a mage. Mages can connect minds, right? You can read minds yourself. So, could you maybe…let her into your mind? Show her what happened last time, help her understand what you tried to tell me. Maybe we don’t need words. Look, I think my sister had the right idea with the bleeding -” Rhys ignored Nina’s scoff “- but I think we went about it the wrong way. We’ve been so focused on trying to weaken the mages that we didn’t really think about how they need to be weakened. Poison doesn’t work, obviously, and maybe that’s because we’re doing too much. We don’t need them to be ill, we just need them to be unable to fight back. We need to hurt the mind specifically. The brain needs blood to function, just like every part of the body. If we bleed Tristan we can get enough blood away from the brain that he should, theoretically, go unconscious and start to die. That brief window where his mind is no longer active may be what we need.”

Nina was visibly hesitant. “How much time would that give us?”

“Once he’s unconscious? A couple minutes? Once someone is unconscious from blood loss death isn’t far behind.”

Nina chewed on her lip, pacing the hallway. “And how do we keep him from dying, once that happens?”

“So long as we can stop the bleeding his body can regenerate what was lost, and Venya’s healing should be able to speed up the process. I’ve had it done to me, so I know it works.”

“So what, you want me to just…envision this? Put this image of us bleeding him out into her head? Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be very persuasive,” Nina muttered.

“Then make it persuasive. I don’t know how because, like you said, I don’t get it. I don’t get magic. But you do. Show her how you envision this working. Show her what you saw in the minds of the others. Show her what could be, if we do this right.”

Nina suddenly stopped her pacing and turned slowly to face Rhys. When she spoke, Rhys could not be certain if she was chiding him, or asking a genuine question. “Should I also show her an imagined future of Tristan healthy and happy?”

Rhys felt his throat go dry. “No.”

Nina didn’t respond, only regarding Rhys with a long, uncertain look. Eventually - likely worn down by Rhys’ unflinching stare, waiting for some sort of answer - she shrugged her shoulders with a sigh. “Fine. Whatever you want. Let’s just get this over with.”

There was no response to Rhys’ knocks on the closed door to the room where Venya rested, but neither was the door locked. It was Nina who first peeked her head inside, giving Rhys a gesture to follow a moment later. Venya sat in a large arm chair near the fire, Asha swaddled neatly in her arms, sleeping soundly. Though she showed no real emotion at their entrance, neither did she tell them to leave, choosing to patiently watch.

“How are you? And Asha?”

“We’re well, thank you. Gerard is very good to us.” Venya gestured to a cradle that sat beside the bed, and Rhys briefly wondered if it had once been Ero’s, dusted off after 30 years in some back room.

“May I sit?” He asked, hovering near the empty chair at the opposite side of the fireplace. Venya gave a tentative nod, and Rhys sat, leaving Nina hovering awkwardly nearby. “I need to talk to you about Tristan.” It was clear from her sudden stiffness this was what had kept her in the closed-off room. Her jaw tightened, perhaps to keep from trembling, and she gave a slow nod.

“We have a new idea, and I think it will be better than the last, but we can’t do anything without you.” Rhys laid open his hands on his lap. “I know you’re scared - we all are. And that’s why we need to explain everything so that…” Rhys’ words trailed off as he sat there speechless. He did not have the words to convey his thoughts, even the simplest of explanations escaped him. When it became clear he could think of nothing else to say - at least not in a language she’d understand - Rhys ushered over Nina. The girl approached cautiously, and with a genuine smile that looked unfamiliar to Rhys. She knelt before Venya, resting on her heels with her hands outstretched.

“Nina wants to show you.”

Rhys’ words were clunky, his explanation unsatisfying, but after a few moments of staring at Nina’s proffered hands the meaning of the gesture seemed to dawn on her. Gently she laid Asha in the crib before hesitantly turning back toward Nina, her hands inching out a bit. “Show me?” She asked, looking skeptically between Rhys and Nina, the latter of whom was growing visibly impatient. Rhys nodded. With that affirmation, Venya placed her hands in Nina’s, and Rhys watched as both women’s eyes flitted closed and the room was engulfed in a strange silence.

It felt oddly disconcerting watching an exchange he could neither see nor here. He did not like the helplessness he felt in his removal from the situation, forced to be a bystander when every part of him was so eager to participate. In watching, he could not help but be reminded of the dreamwalks that, in that moment, felt so very long ago. Those moments had felt so real, so tangible, even Jessa’s touch feeling warm and solid when he knew it to be nothing more than a trick of the mind. Would Venya feel Nina’s emotions, see things through her eyes? Would that be enough? Should it be enough, when it was really no more than feeling and intuition?

The exchange was not long, though in the silence it felt longer. It was Nina who broke away first, looking unfazed, though perhaps more confident than she had before. Venya’s response was longer, but as she laid her hands in her lap and opened her eyes, Rhys knew why. Her light eyes brimmed with tears, her jaw - though set - quaking ever so slightly. The reaction took Rhys aback.

Venya turned to Rhys, her eyes suddenly ablaze with an unexpected intensity. “This is true?”

Rhys grasped for words, but could only blink back. He glanced to Nina - now lounging back against the legs of the bed - who only shrugged at his unspoken question. “Yes, I believe so.”

Pressing her lips to her knuckles, Venya began to speak in a rush of words, so low and quick Rhys could distinguish none of them. It could have been anything, but somehow Rhys got the distinct impression it was a prayer of a sort. To whom, and for what, Rhys did not know. When she finished, Venya’s eyes met Rhys, and she gave a nod, accompanied by a single word, that sent a shiver down Rhys’ spine. “Yes.”

—

The cellar felt much smaller with Tygan and Kelire gone. As they set up there was hardly a word spoken between any of them. Tristan sat straight, though his head lobbed to the side, unconscious. The only thing keeping him upright were the bonds that tied his legs and upper arms firmly to the chair. His forearms hung lose, a pewter bucket sitting beneath each. It was not an elegant set-up, but it was what was needed. Venya leaned over Tristan, her fingers gently stroking his cheeks, his jaw, his hair. Rhys could hardly watch the display, his stomach twisting with guilt. He should not be encouraging this recklessness, not when it could cost Venya so much. Yet he had not coerced her, had told her no lies - this he reminded himself again and again. Whatever the outcome, it would be on all of their heads. Still, Rhys could not bear the thought of things going wrong.

Rhys’ fingers began to shake as he opened the box. He stopped, calming himself before continuing, seeing the delicate blades gleam in the candlelight. He removed two, handing one across Tristan’s lap to Anja who knelt at his other side. With a view of the blades, Victor, hulking quietly against the far wall, gave a shudder.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” said Rhys reassuringly. “We’ll be alright.”

Victor vigorously shook his head. “You never know when you’ll need some muscle,” he muttered. The joke fell flat through Victor’s palpable discomfort, but Rhys gave a small smile.

“Let’s stop wasting time,” said Anja, already running her fingers along the inside edge of Tristan’s arm, feeling for his arteries.

Rhys glanced up toward Nina, who’d stopped her pacing, and then to Venya, who remained kneeling before Tristan. “Are you ready?” Though neither looked to be brimming with confidence, both gave firm nods. It was then only Rhys left to calm himself. With a long, steady breath out, Rhys looked to his sister. In the same stroke, they each pierced Tristan’s skin, and in an instant the blood began to flow.

Their cuts had been surgical, placed precisely to open both arteries on each arm. Rhys had known the process would move quickly, but it was the sight of the sheer amount of blood that no practical knowledge could prepare him for. He followed Anja’s lead, pressing his fingers against the man’s wrist and feeling the quickly gaining speed of Tristan’s pulse. In only minutes his pulse raced frantically, and Rhys glanced repeatedly at the pooling blood in the bucket. It was too fast. Surely, this could not be sustainable. What had looked like only a thin layer of blood what felt like moments ago was now a pool two inches thick. Rhys could feel his own heart begin to race, and in his panic he looked to Nina, desperate for some sign. The girl’s hands gripped against Tristan’s head, her nails like talons, her eyes flickering behind closed lids.

“Nina,” Rhys called.

“Weaker,” came her response, though her voice sounded quiet and far away. “He’s weaker but…not yet.”

The waiting - oblivious to anything but the life quickly draining from Tristan’s body - was agonizing. Seconds passed like hours, and Rhys tasted blood as his teeth bit through his cheek in his anxiety. Then, in a sudden flash, Venya’s hands gripped down on Tristan’s legs. “Now!”

The boom of Venya’s voice deadened the cellar, and the silence pressed down on them all like a blanket. Rhys could only hear Nina’s ragged breathing as she struggled, her fingers bone white and trembling. With her word, Venya’s eyes had flown open, and she stared now at Tristan with a look off horror and realization. She desperately clung to him as if trying to pull him back from the edge of death, a battle that from her face was being lost. From Tristan’s appearance, Rhys could see why. His face was as pale as a corpse, his body as limp. “No, no, no,” came Venya’s cry, over and over, her eyes pressing shut hard as she bowed her hand. “Rhys, please.”

Rhys had thought that in the moment when all was on the line, he would stand firm. Yet the moment he heard the desperation in Venya’s voice, something cracked. Rhys grabbed for one of the old cloths they’d brought and pressed it firmly to Tristan’s arm, lifting the arm above his head. The cloth turned crimson in an instant, and blood began to run down his arm and onto his chest.

“Rhys, what are you doing?” Anja hissed frantically.

“I can’t do it,” said Rhys, grasping for another cloth. He turned his attention to Nina, her face nearly as pale as Tristan’s. “Nina? What’s going on?” When there came no response Rhys knew they were close. So close. And yet…

The blood that escaped from the cloth suddenly stopped, and as Rhys pulled back a corner he watched the skin begin to mend itself before his eyes, sewn together like cloth. “Anja!” He barked, holding out a scrap of cloth. “Please!”

“No!” She yelled back, holding the arm firm.

“Anja! He’s going to die!”

A shock ran through Rhys as Nina took a sudden gasp of air, her breathing suddenly quiet. Her eyes were wide, hands shaking violently as she stared gaping at the others. “It’s done.”

The words, so small, so quiet, rang out like an echo in a cavern, and the response was just as grand. Rhys had never felt himself move so fast as he slashed at Tristan’s bindings with his dagger, freeing the man in seconds. Victor was at his side in a moment, and together they grabbed the limp man and laid him onto the haphazardly stacked sacks of grain and potatoes, angling his body until his head nearly touched the floor. Venya cradled his head, and as the tears fell from her eyes Rhys watched the other wounds begin to close, leaving Tristan blood-soaked but whole.

Rhys hurried to Nina’s side as she trembled on the ground, collapsed in the passing moments. “Did it work?” Rhys asked breathlessly, his chest tight in anticipation.

Nina looked dazed as she began to nod. “I think so.”

Rhys’ heart somehow beat faster, his every nerve on edge. But there was one question left to ask, one that all his hopes rested on. He almost dared not ask it, for he wasn’t certain he could bear the answer.

“Is he alive?” A question asked both in Etrenian and Antascian.

One word, uttered by both Anja and Venya, both huddled over the man, rang out in reply. “Yes.”

[Mollianne]

"-gave him his breakfast. Said he looked mighty handsome in that uniform of his."

"I heard he could do with a bath."

"We'll, he had ridden for - how many days straight? I think that's to be expected."

Jessa would normally be awake long before the servants came to call, so it was unnerving to be woken by their voices. She was surprised they had come in at all, but as she shifted and cracked an eye open, she saw the door was ajar. Odd; she had surely closed it the night before. She must have been exhausted after her ordeal with the ring, hence why sleeping for nine hours felt like only two. But for a flash of a dagger pressed against her skin, pinching and vivid, she did not remember any dreams or restlessness. She should not have felt like she could sleep for a week. Her head, as usual, pounded. Why had she still not visited the healer?

The servants still lingered outside her door, waiting for an answer to a knock that must have woken her. She was about to get out of bed when her brain caught up to their conversation, and she hesitated.

"Do you think he's been in battle?" one of them asked.

"I heard he has a scar right here. People are saying it's recent, too. He disappeared off to the healer after breakfast, complaining it was weeping."

A recent battle? Then this messenger would be bringing news of how Etrene had fared. Jessa swallowed hard, then forced herself out of bed. Breakfast was soon, and perhaps she could glean the outcome from Alrick's mood. She called the servants in as she dipped behind her screen to dress.

"Thank you," Jessa said to the servants when they were done, calling them by name. The younger one flushed, new to the castle and unused to royals and nobles knowing her name. The other woman nodded to her, giving her a significant glance. Her name was one of those on the list; Jessa very much doubted the gossip she had overheard had been accidental.

At breakfast, Alrick gave away nothing. A pile of letters stood beside his plate, and he casually opened them between mouthfuls of porridge.

At least he wasn't gloating.

Towards the end of the meal, Elissa - who had spent its entirely glancing at her father and then dropping her gaze to her plate, fiddling with the tablecloth - inhaled deeply and turned resolutely towards Alrick. "Father." Her voice wobbled. "Are we going to die?"

A flash of annoyance passed over Alrick's face, but it slipped off as soon as he looked at Elissa. His daughter's eyes were wide and glistening, and she still gripped the tablecloth as though it would hide that her fingers were ever-so-slightly shaking. He stood, slowly pushing his chair in and coming around the table. He pried Elissa's hands from the cloth and held them in his.

Jessa had never seen him look so fatherly.

"I promise you, Elissa, no harm will come to any of us."

"We'll win, right?" The meek voice was so unlike Elissa, too. Had Jessa forgotten to wake up? Was this a dream?

"The Novarians stand no chance. The tides are changing, Elissa. They might have made it further than we ever expected, but ultimately, they will lose. We're already pushing them back, now they're queen's gone to deal with the mess of a country she left behind." He glanced at Jessa, who tried to stare back at him expressionlessly. "I won't let any of them hurt you."

Elissa sniffed and nodded. She withdrew her hands, hiding them and their shaking under the table. She followed her father's gaze to look at Jessa, and she scowled, all vulnerability giving way to spite. "What are you looking at?"

Jessa opened her mouth, though she had no clue what she would say. She needn't have worried, for Elissa started railing at her, a barrage of insults so familiar they glazed right over her. Eventually, there was a pause. Jessa thought Elissa was done.

"At least," Elissa said, finally, and though her voice had taken on a wobble, she continued, "If the Novarians do breach the city, you'll die right along with us."

Ainesh, who had grown progressively more outraged by Elissa's remarks and that everyone else had just let it happen, dropped his spoon. "I think you've-"

"Leave it, Ainesh." Jessa had stood, too fast, from her chair. She averted her gaze, glimpsing only Edmund's shocked expression, before she ducked her chin and strode from the room. As soon as the door was closed, she ran. Whether it was from Elissa's words or how truthful they might be - except that it would probably be Alrick who killed her if the Novarians made it that far - she could not say.

It was her visit with Alistair that day, and as much as she wished she could run from that too, she knew she could not. He had a valuable connection to Alrick, and her own hurt had prevented her from taking advantage of it. She needed to stop seeing Alistair as her friend - as a person, really. Just an asset.

It was not Jessa's way.

She passed the council chambers on the way out of the castle. Nathaniel Tremont caught her eye, nodding imperceptibly at her as he pulled back the man heading into the chamber before him. The man turned, the annoyance dropping off his face as he saw who had accosted him. Nathaniel slung an arm over the man's shoulders and leaned in close as he pulled him away. The man did not see Nathaniel stick his thumb up to Jessa. It told Jessa everything she needed to know; he was working on accessing the crown's finances, and he was close.

Given how close the university was to the castle, it took Jessa far less time than she wanted to enter the gated community where many of the professors lived. Jessa had never wished the university further away before. Her heart ached. This year had ruined everything.

Alistair lived at the end of a long row of terraced houses, squashed together as if they huddled for warmth. They were well-maintained, however, unlike the dilapidated corridors of Ovis' underbelly, and nearly all were painted. It was akin to walking across a rainbow. Alistair's house was navy blue, the colour of...

Without that reminder - that sharp, stabbing pain - Jessa might have dawdled outside the door. Alistair hustled her inside, all warmth and smiles, but he did not try to hug her. After the infrequency of their encounters, it was impossible for him to remain oblivious to the shift in their relationship.

What Alistair's house lacked in width, it tried to make up for in length. His sitting room, dining room and study all cluttered the space, which looked as though it had been stretched near to breaking point, and at the end was the kitchen and stairs to the upper floor. The desk, tucked into a corner, was as neat as the one in his office. I swear you must have magical powers - Jessa's old, oft-repeated amazement echoed in her head. She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat and the memories that threatened her.

Alistair chattered nervously as he went to fetch some water. Glass clattered as he apologised that there was nothing else he could offer due to the shortages. He looked thinner, frailer, and it reminded Jessa again of how much worse the people in the slums would be if university professors had only just enough to survive. Alistair returned, babbling still. He told her about a student of his who, a month before, had turned up to class with a hastily-written paper and bloodshot eyes. When he read it, he found it was a stream-of-consciousness diatribe attacking the opposition to the progressive policies of Queen Vymaria of Aquena - a ruler from 200 years ago - and it ended with a frantically crossed-out plea for her three-month-old daughter to 'please, please stop crying'. Jessa smiled tightly. A few months ago, she would have laughed. Alistair slumped, lips twitching as he struggled to think of something else to say. Something to fill the silence. To forget they were not what they had been.

"Your new husband," he said finally, "is he treating you well?"

"Yes." She bit the inside of her cheek before throwing caution to the wind and adding, "Though not if the king had had his way and married me off to a man who probably murdered his wife. Did you hear about that?"

Alistair blanched. "No."

Liar.

She didn't say it.

She should have said it.

The moment passed.

"We know where we stand with each other, at least," she said instead. Alistair nodded, not getting it, seeing only the comparison to Rhys. Catching and holding Alistair's gaze, she remarked, "Friends need trust as much as lovers."

Alistair tore his face away, tapping on the arm of his chair. Almost.

"How's Irina?" She asked the question deliberately casually, but the timing of it left no doubt as to Jessa's true motive. Jessa stamped down the bubbling guilt that she had not even thought of the woman in months - and now she would use Irina for her own gain.

A gasping sob burst from Alistair's lips, curtailed when he slapped his hand over his mouth. Shook his head. "Jessa... "

"What, Alistair, what?"

He shook his head, over and over. He was not in the room with her when he whispered, "Got out of hand, was never meant to be like this..." Jessa just watched as he spiralled into his guilt - he deserved it.

"Why?" she whispered, when the room had fallen still. Then louder, "Why did you bring her back here?"

His voice shook. "I don't know. They stopped coming and I panicked. I brought her to him."

Jessa's heart lodged in her throat. "The king?" Alistair opened his mouth, but no words came. He could only nod his head. Jessa stood, so fast that when she tried to move back - away from him, away from the horror - she tripped over her armchair. She should have guessed, but she hadn't. She had assumed they had already hurt Irina enough, that she wouldn't be able to recover from the memory loss Nayall had been forced to inflict on her. After her visit to Irina, she had suspected that Alistair had lied to her about bringing Irina to her family. She hadn't let herself think beyond that. She hated herself for it.

"She might have recovered."

It wasn't a question, but Alistair answered it as if it were. "I don't know, Jessa. On the journey back, it seemed like she might have been remembering more than in her most lucid moments, but they'd been inflicting this on her for a long time."

"You." Venom dripped from the word.

Alistair flinched. He looked away, breathing, "Yes…" A long silence filled the room, Jessa imagining the worst of what Alrick might have done to Irina while Alistair stared off into the distance. Eventually, he shook himself and said, "I don't know what he did - he sent me from the room, restrained by guards," he added, a despicable attempt to absolve him of guilt; Jessa did not yield. Alistair swallowed. "He broke her. Suddenly Irina's memories weren't concealed but flooding out of her, too fast and too tangled for her to make sense of. Her mind was attacking itself. I got her out of there and took her to a hospital. I didn't tell him where."

Jessa gripped the chair that now stood between her and Alistair - shielding herself from him - as the true horror of what Irina was suffering settled over her. How could anyone possibly survive such a thing? And all alone.

"Did you tell her family?" She knew the answer, for the doctor had revealed that Irina had only one visitor. But she wanted to hear Alistair say it, to admit outright that the excuse for returning he had given to her months ago was a lie.

Alistair looked at her, then. His eyes swam, pleaded with her to let him conceal his shame. When Jessa remained unmoved, he said, "I went to them. I... told them that Irina had travelled to Jasrah to visit me without my knowledge. That... she had been lost at sea and I had only just learned of it."

"You're a monster." The words tumbled from her lips without thought, but she knew she meant them. She took pleasure in Alistair's flinch, his hopeless eyes beseeching her to forgive him. Never. Never again.

She knew by now that she could trust no one she loved.

Better not to love anyone at all.

You'll end up like your father if you think like that, a voice in the back of her head warned. She ignored it. This was about Irina, not her.

"How dare you strip them of their right to see their daughter? Don't you dare try to tell me it's a kindness to keep them from seeing Irina's state of mind. Don't you dare. You just don't want to face what you've done. But you've no right. Their daughter is alive and in the same city."

Alistair dropped his gaze, chin practically touching his chest. He fiddled with his fingers. "Irina-" He rubbed his face, bit his lip, stood, tried to come towards her. Jessa held out a hand, stepping back. The remaining light in Alistair's eyes extinguished in an instant. "She died over a month ago."

"No…"

"Her brain was attacking itself. It couldn't deal with the influx of memories. She didn't believe they were real, or she didn't know what to believe. She was ranting, unable to make sense of it. A week before her death, the doctor told me she'd had a visitor. He was too scared to tell me who, so I assumed the king had found her, and when she died I assumed he'd done something to her to make it worse. But… it wasn't him, was it?"

"No." She had gone to Irina for proof of Alistair's betrayal, showing her a picture of him. Her reaction had been violent - sheer terror. Had she made Irina worse?

"Was it worth it, Alistair?" she asked spitefully. "Was Irina's death worth it? What did she even know?"

"I don't know."

"All this, and you don't know?" Jessa was shrill, verging on hysteria.

"I can only imagine it was about…" He waved his hands, unable to say even though they both knew. Alrick's magic. "She was so far gone at the end. I promise you, her parents would not want to see that. She wasn't Irina anymore. When she died, she was being restrained by the doctor as she babbled about some man dying on a cliff. Those were her last words. She'd forgotten her family, herself, by that point."

"And whose fault is that? What right did you have? How do you know that their presence couldn't have calmed her, reminded her? You stole their right to choose from them. You stole their daughter from them." Her blood boiled with loathing. "You said you had a daughter once. Would you have wanted someone to lie to you?"

"I did what I thought was best."

"No, Alistair. You did what was best for you. The way that allowed you most easily to ignore your part." She turned away, hugging herself and letting out a sob. "I actually… I think I had some absurd hope you weren't completely lost. That there was a limit to what you could stand by and let happen." She turned back, eyes burning with tears. "What hold does he have over you?"

Alistair slumped, his jaw going slack with desolation, and she knew he didn't know, not really. "He… he saved my wife. He gave me a whole year with her that I never should have had, a year where she was more alive than she'd been for the past ten. You can't know what that means." Jessa opened her mouth, but Alistair continued. "And… I don't know. If I'm there, I can pick up the pieces. With people like Irina. I can try to keep them safe, to stop him going too far, to…"

"That's what happened with Irina, then? There was something worse than this?"

"I failed, Jessa. I…" He shook his head. "It hadn't been this bad before."

"You've 'looked after' other people before, then?" She shook her head in disgust. "What you're doing isn't helping them."

"It's better they have me than no one. I have stopped the king going too far before. And I will continue to do so." He glanced at the stairs, so quick a movement Jessa almost missed it. She didn't hesitate, skirting around Alistair and running for the stairs despite his pleas for her to stop. She bounded up the stairs. All the doors were ajar but one. She headed straight for it, turning the handle. She pushed the door wide. Stepped inside.

Stopped dead.

There was a girl - a child. Her white skin was unnaturally pale, close to death, and in stark contrast to her black frizzy hair that lay in straggles on her pillow like a dirty halo. She must have been fourteen. Something stirred in Jessa, something that had her tripping from the room with a single word on her lips. "S-"

The moment her foot crossed the threshold, she tumbled to the floor as the word died on her lips. Alistair was there, closing the door, but Jessa paid him no heed. She clutched her head, feeling disoriented. Where was she?

She opened her eyes, seeing the ceiling. She felt groggy and weak, as if she had fainted. Where was she?

Alistair's face appeared in her vision, and she pushed herself up and away. She surveyed her surroundings. What was she doing upstairs?

"Jessa?"

She looked at Alistair, seeing his concern, and her world flashed red. There he was, manipulating her again. Did he think she had forgotten Irina? All her anger rushed to the fore, and why she was upstairs fell to the wayside.

"Where are Irina's parents? They need to know the truth, and I know you'll never tell them."

"They're gone, Jessa," Alistair whispered. "I gave them most of my life savings so that they could start afresh in Aquena. I feared for their lives, in case the king decided they might know what their daughter did."

"That makes up for it, does it? Here, have some money and be grateful that I'm helping you while I let your daughter die?" Jessa pushed past him, rushing down the stairs. At the bottom, she turned, glaring at Alistair at the top. "If I somehow survive this war, I will find Irina's parents and I will tell them what you've done." In a rush of spite, even knowing she would never be so callous, that she just wanted to drive the knife deeper into Alistair's blackened heart, she said, "Perhaps I can offer them the small consolation that, though the only man who could have protected their daughter betrayed and killed her, he also stood by while his king made victims of those he claimed to love as daughters."

She left Alistair's house and slammed the door. It was not just the end of their conversation; it was the end of everything. As she walked, she tried to brush away her tears, but they refused to stop. She ducked into an alleyway, curling into herself as she cried - not for Alistair and their end, never for that, but for Irina. She remembered working with her, the younger woman's enthusiasm and drive. It was very likely Irina had discovered Alrick's magic - maybe more - before anyone else. And that spark, that intelligence, had been snuffed out without a second thought. Irina had died with no one knowing her name, her bravery, or the real reason she died. Jessa doubted for a second that Irina's last weeks were the rambling nonsense of a woman losing her mind. She had recognised Alistair and that he had hurt her. If Irina remembered only one thing - a man dying on a cliff - then it was important.

Jessa vowed then and there that she would do everything she could to unravel Irina's desperate last attempt to reveal what she knew, and in so doing - given Alrick's fatal reaction to Irina - hopefully she would unravel the king, too.

[Rosabeth]

With drawn curtains and an air of silence, it was difficult to know if Rhys had slept for an hour or a day. That his body ached and his head throbbed hardly helped. He did not remember falling asleep, but then again he remembered very little through the haze of his mind. From the moment the word had been spoken and Tristan’s survival verified, it was as if a great weight had collapsed on them all. They’d first found Tristan a room, but he was hardly the only one in need of help. It took Victor’s help to all but carry Nina - weak with exhaustion - back upstairs, and even then she did not make it past the sitting room before collapsing into a plush armchair. As Rhys pushed himself off what he now realized to be a sofa and blinked into the dim light, he could make out her sleeping form from across the room, curled up like a cat with a blanket tucked beneath her chin. Across from Rhys, comically splayed out on a couch far too small for his body, Victor slept soundly. It did not seem either of them had made it far. There was a certain peace to the scene, one that not even Victor’s raucous snores could break. Rhys would have smiled for it, had his fingers not brushed against the dried blood on his cuffs.

Blood. What an inconsequential thing. Had it been months prior, Rhys would have simply tossed the shirt. Now, it took all he had not to retch. He could suddenly feel it everywhere, against his skin, in his nails. His hands shook as he turned them over again and again, seeing the dark red lines running through his nail beds, his skin stained with the stuff. Rhys stumbled through the halls until he came across the bathroom, practically ripping off the black shirt as he plunged his hands into the basin of tepid water. He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, until the water ran pink and the only redness left in his skin was from the abrasion. The moment the blood began to lift Rhys could feel a weight lift with it, yet his hands still trembled, images of the night before flashing through his mind. He did not understand the ringing in his ears, the shortness of breath that gripped his chest. It was only blood. What was done was done. He could only imagine his father’s face if he were there, watching Rhys come apart at so silly a thing. Rhys’ face burned at the though, but the shame only made it worse.

“A-are you alright, Lord Rhys?”

Rhys jumped, his heart pounding as he spun to see Lord Tallus standing tentatively in the doorway, his eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry!” The man exclaimed, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just thought…well, I heard someone walking about, you see, and I thought I might offer you some food or drink or…” Rhys watched Lord Tallus’ eyes flicker to the discarded shirt on the floor, “maybe a new shirt?”

If the thought of his father’s disapproval was not enough to shame him, the image of Lord Tallus watching him with such pity certainly was. “Yes, thank you,” he mumbled, taking the towel now extended towards him.

In the brief moments of Lord Tallus’ absence Rhys attempted, with some success, to calm his breathing. It was over. Rhys repeated the phrase to himself again and again, and yet it did not seem to resonate in the way he thought it would. Bleeding Tristan could hardly even be counted among the worst things Rhys had done in his life, given that he’d disposed of a body only a day prior. He was no stranger to violence. He’d seen enough pain in his life to have thought himself more or less desensitized. Yet something about Venya’s pleas would not leave him. Hearing her voice in his head carried a strange power, one that made him feel like a young soldier seeing the horror of war for the first time. He wished with all his might he could do away with it. He could not.

Lord Tallus’ footsteps on the creaking wood outside snapped Rhys from his thoughts just in time to see the man return, a plain white shirt held out. “It might be a bit more snug than you’re used to. You’ve always been taller and broader than Ero, but it should do for now. It’s clean, at least.”

“Thank you,” said Rhys. He waited for a moment after donning the shirt, expecting Lord Tallus to leave, but when the man only continued to stand in the doorway with a nervous expression is became clear there was more to be said. “Is there something you want to say?”

“Me?” Lord Tallus’ eyebrows shot up, looking genuinely surprised. “Oh, no no no, you know me, I don’t like to pry. Getting involved in other peoples’ business never ends well, you know. But, um…” he glanced nervously at Rhys, “I was wondering how much longer this stuff might be going on?”

“I think we’re quite done, though if you don’t mind a few of us could still use a place to stay,” said Rhys.

“Oh, good!” Lord Tallus took a visible sigh of relief, his furrowed brow softening. “And of course you may stay. It’s actually rather nice to have people around, you know.” When there’s not strange noises coming from the cellar, Rhys thought, filling in what Lord Tallus did not have the nerve to say. Even with this information, though, there was still a look of concern on the man’s face, and as Rhys watched him shift about uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact, Rhys could guess why.

“I know you’re very busy, but you haven’t happened to have seen Ero lately, have you?” Lord Tallus asked finally, his eyes full of hope. Rhys felt guilty as he shook his head, watching the man’s shoulders slump, his eyes downcast.

“He’ll come around,” said Rhys, quietly. “Just give him some time.”

Lord Tallus smiled politely, nodding repeatedly. “Of course.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. At least you’re trying to own up to yours. He knows that,” said Rhys.

“I hope so.”

Once Lord Tallus took his leave, giving some hurried promise to get a meal for them all, Rhys was left to silence once more. With it, he knew what he must do. Even with his foggy memory Rhys found Tristan’s room easily. The door stood open a crack, just enough to let out the faintest light. Rhys pushed the door open gingerly, cringing at the creaking of the hinges. It did not seem to matter, however, as the figure in the bed did not stir. Tristan looked so different in this state it almost made Rhys forget the man he’d been only hours before. Tristan slept peacefully, and though his skin looked abnormally pale, shining with a light sheen of sweat, his body held no tension, his chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. He looked pleasant, friendly, if it was possible for an unconscious person to look so. Rhys could only hope this change would hold when Tristan awoke.

He was utterly useless as a nurse, and far more useless as a healer, but he dared not wake Venya. She certainly needed the sleep, and he hardly wanted to start a fight over what to do with Tristan. Rhys knew she’d want to be there when he first awoke, to be the first face he saw. Rhys couldn’t blame her. In her position he could hardly act as though he would not want the same, but he was removed enough to see it for the danger it was. If he did not recognize her, if the damage of the mind control proved too much, it would break Venya’s heart. Worse, if their actions were less effective than expected, Rhys could hardly be so careless as to allow Tristan to attack her, or worse, their child. No, there are too many bad scenarios. As Rhys approached the bedside he felt hyperaware of the blood amulet around his neck, feeling it press against his chest. He assured himself it would all be fine, but that did not stop him from giving the amulet a squeeze as he took a seat in a chair seated beside the bed.

Minutes turned into hours, and patience turned into pacing. At one point he’d gone to a window to draw back a curtain and take a guess at the time, but the overcast skies made it impossible to say, and the lack of a clock hardly helped matters. Perhaps it had been better, though, to not watch the time. Thinking about it was bad enough. Eventually his desire to keep Venya out of matters turned to a distant memory as the pierce of Asha’s shrill cries down the hall cut the silence. It hardly came as a surprise when Venya, rocking Asha gently against her chest, peeked into the room only minutes later.

“Is he-?”

Rhys shook his head before she could finish her thought, and watched as her spirits sunk before him. Slowly, but with a look that dared Rhys to stop her, Venya approached the bedside. With one hand firmly holding Asha she extended the other toward Tristan’s face. Her fingers brushed along the tops of his cheekbones as light as feathers, gently trailing up to sweep a stray strand of blond hair from his temple. “Tristan.” Her voice was barely audible, like a passing breeze, and with that one word she stepped back, letting her hand drop away.

For the first time since she’d entered the room, Rhys got a good look at Venya. The darkness under her eyes was more pronounced, sunken even, and the whites of her eyes were tinged with red. How many times had she been in that room? How many times had she brushed his face, only to turn back to a dark room and lie awake? Clearly, she had barely slept.

“Venya,” Rhys sighed. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Go get some rest. Please. I’ll watch over him.”

At first she did not seem convinced, eyeing Rhys with skepticism. He could hardly blame her. His particularly skill set did little to provide assurance that Tristan’s health would be looked after. Still, she was wise enough to understand the truth of the matter, that without sleep there was little she could do either.

“If he wakes-”

“You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

Rhys’ promise was hardly satisfactory judging from her frown, but it was enough for her to relent. With Venya gone, Rhys prepared himself for more hours of solitude. Instead, the house slowly began to wake. After so many days of worry and contemplation, the new atmosphere felt strange and new, a feeling Rhys had grown used to living without. Optimism. Both Victor and Nina came by the room to ask after Tristan, both looking better than Rhys had expected. Though Nina seemed visibly shaken still, far quieter than Rhys was used to from her, there was a hint of careless abandon in her yet. Only Anja did not return, having left immediately the night before. He could hardly blame her, even if her hatred was misplaced. The vitriol in her eyes each time she looked at Tristan made Rhys thankful she had not killed him when she’d had the chance. That she hadn’t showed control and compassion, even if saying such a thing out loud to anyone else would only get incredulous stares.

With his mind more at ease Rhys let his thoughts wander, and with it nearly missed the stirring from the bed beside him. Rhys froze, slamming shut the book open in his lap. At first, Rhys thought his eyes might have played a trick on him, and that the stirring had been a draft rustling a curtain. The next moment that thought was gone as Tristan began to cough, rolling onto his side with a groan. His eyelids barely parted as he squinted into the dim room. Tristan furrowed his brow.

“Where…” His voice strained, barely making a word. Rhys took a cup Lord Tallus had brought in earlier and held it to Tristan’s lips.

“Drink.” Rhys ordered. Tristan, even through barely-open eyes, still managed to eye the cup suspiciously. “It’s just water, I promise.”

Luckily for Rhys, it took little convincing to coax Tristan on. His thirst was enough motivation, and he strained to pull his head up and take the cup with a shaky hand. Watching the man struggle to even lift his head sent a wave of guilt over Rhys. Tristan would recover quickly under Venya’s healing - only days, likely - but it did not make it any easier to watch. When Tristan could drink no more he laid back in the bed, his eyes now open wide as he looked about the room in a daze.

“Where am I?”

“Safe,” Rhys answered. “And you’re in Jasrah. For now, that’s all you need to know.”

Tristan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a long breath. “I feel like death.”

“Tristan, can you tell me what you remember? Anything at all before this point?” Rhys picked his words carefully, speaking slowly.

“I…um…” Tristan paused, blinking a few times as he stared into the distance, his eyes glazed over. “Who are you, anyway? Do I know you?”

“No, not really,” said Rhys. “I’m Rhys.”

“Rhys,” Tristan mused, suddenly staring at Rhys with a new intensity. Rhys waited with held breath. It was not unreasonable that Tristan should know who he was, even if Rhys did not know him in any meaningful way. If Tristan could recognize his name, or better his face, he would certainly recognize Venya. Rhys’ hope fell almost as soon as it arose, for Tristan seemed to shrug off the brief moment of recognition.

“Are you positive you can’t tell me anything? Anything at all?” Rhys pressed.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Tristan sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like the worst hangover I’ve ever had. My mind is a mess.”

Though Rhys’ spirits sunk, he did not let it show. It had only been minutes. Minutes compared to months of brainwashing. He simply needed patience.

“Would you like something to eat?” Rhys asked.

Tristan’s face instantly brightened as he tried and failed to push himself up. “Yes, thank you. I’m starving. Am I hungover?”

Rhys couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”

Tristan was hardly exaggerating his hunger. Though he was slowed down by the weakness of his muscles, Rhys sat by as the man all but attempted to shove a quarter loaf of bread in his mouth at once, and made surprisingly quick work of the stew. By the time he’d started on his second helping Rhys could see a hint of strength in him that had not been there before. It was something.

“Tristan I need to tell you something.” Tristan did not pause his eating, instead giving Rhys a quick look and a nod. Rhys took it as an urging to continue. “Something terrible happened to you. Something I’m not sure you remember.” Rhys watched as Tristan’s hand fell still at his side, swallowing hard. He stared at Rhys, waiting. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I need something to go off of. Anything. What’s the last memory you have. Even something that you’re not sure is real, something that might feel like a dream. Just try.”

It was agonizing to watch, to wait, wondering if it had all been for nothing. No. Rhys could not let himself think like that. It had been for something. He was sitting beside a man who only a day prior had been a shell of himself, his mind utterly controlled by another. He was free. That had to count for something. In the grand scheme of things, Rhys couldn’t say that it negated all he’d done, but it was something.

After some minutes of silence Tristan began to nod, his eyes fixed down at his lap. “I, um, was in…a house? There were other people there. People I don’t know. I don’t remember where it was. But we were…we were…” Tristan’s breath caught, his eyes widening. Rhys leaned forward in his seat. It was there. He saw it. That moment of remembrance, of memories clicking in to place. From the terror quickly spreading across Tristan’s face, like an animal caught in a hunt, Rhys could guess what it was he remembered.

“I know you’re a mage, Tristan.” He said. Tristan’s reaction was immediate, a quick intake of breath with a wide-eyed panicked stare. “It’s alright. I’m not going to tell anyone, and I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I told you you were somewhere safe and I wasn’t lying. Please, you have to trust me.”

Tristan hardly looked convinced, but it was clear he had few choices. Rhys could hardly blame him. He probably wouldn’t trust himself in the same circumstance. Still, when Rhys made no move, quietly waiting for a response, Tristan let himself relax. He sunk back into his pillows, taking a slow drink of water.

“I can’t tell you anything specific; I can only remember bits and pieces. I have to try to remember them, too. These memories don’t even feel real, not really. They’re like vivid dreams. But…if you’re telling me they are real…what was I doing?” By his last words Tristan’s voice was but a whisper.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. “Do you mind if I step out for a minute?” Rhys asked. Tristan’s eyes flashed to the door with suspicion. Likely wondering if standing just outside was another mage, waiting to take him back to whatever nightmares Tristan was remembering. “Relax. I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I? I promised you’re safe here. You have to trust me on this. I’ll be back in a moment, I promise.”

Though Tristan was hardly pleased, he relented. Within the minute Rhys was at Venya’s room, shaking her gently awake .

“Tristan is awake, and I think he might remember you.”

In less than a second Venya went from a semi-lucid state to standing beside Rhys, all but exploding from the bed. She beelined for the bassinet where Asha lay sleeping, but Rhys put out a hand. “He may remember you, but that doesn’t mean he’ll remember her,” said Rhys. The words hit Venya like a blow. “The last time he saw you you were pregnant. He has no memories of a baby. That is no small thing. His mind is fragile right now; I think it’s better to let him remember your daughter on his own.”

It was not an easy thing to accept, but Rhys knew Venya understood his reasoning, no matter how painful. Still, she continued to the bassinet, scooping Asha into her arms and gently rocking her. “We take the bassinet to the hallway. I want her close, just in case.”

The idea didn’t thrill Rhys. He imagined the baby awaking and crying, and having to explain to a confused Tristan why there was a baby outside his room. It was not a scenario Rhys wanted to deal with. Yet after all he’d put Venya through, he could hardly deny her this one thing. He had a feeling if he tried he would be overruled.

The moment Rhys returned to Tristan’s room, seeing the man waiting anxiously, trying to peer past him and out the door, he felt less confident about his plan. He took a deep breath, calming his nerves. “I’ve brought someone who I think you might remember,” he said. Tristan’s reaction was an immediate tensing, Rhys sighing in response. “No, not like that. Someone good. Someone I think you want to see.”

As Rhys raised his voice there was a creak of the door behind him. Venya’s head poked in through the crack and Rhys nodded, beckoning her forward. She moved slowly, quietly, just as Rhys had instructed, and only came halfway into the room before pausing. Rhys could see her chest fall still, her breathing stopped though her eyes did not betray her worry. Without a careful look, Venya appeared calm, serene even. She waited patiently, her eyes catching Tristan’s as he watched her approach. A moment passed. Another. Rhys realized he too had stopped breathing, the tension thick in the air. Tristan frowned, looking at Venya with an inquisitive stare yet giving nothing away.

Slowly, Venya began to approach once more. When she reached his bedside she gently lowered herself beside him, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Rhys dared not speak. He watched as Venya reached out, her long fingers extending toward Tristan’s face. For his utter lack of signaling he recognized her whatsoever, Rhys was surprised to find Tristan did not shy away from her touch, letting her fingers graze against his forehead and down his cheek.

“Tristan,” Venya murmured, “It’s me. I’m here.”

It was as though the skies had cleared. Tristan’s eyes widened, alight with a sudden dawning of understanding. Whether it was her voice, her Antascian words, or her touch Rhys did not know, but whatever veiled Tristan’s memory was gone in that instant. He let out a laugh unlike any Rhys had heard, jubilant and bright, and in an instant Venya collapsed onto his chest with a sob, though her face showed only joy. Tristan’s hands brushed through her hair, his lips placing kisses on the crown of her head. Their bodies shook with something between a laugh and a sob, and over and over Rhys heard the same phrase uttered in Antascian. I love you.

Rhys glanced away, struggling to avert his attention entirely yet feeling as though he should not be there at all. In truth, it was a difficult scene to watch. To see so much joy when his own life felt as though it was crumbling beneath his feet did not give him the optimism he’d hoped. He hated his selfish thought, but they were impossible to control. He envied their happiness, even rooted in all its tragedy.

As Tristan and Venya embraced, Rhys watch as Tristan grew still, pulling back. He stared at Venya, his eyes trailing down toward her stomach, staring. Or rather, staring at what was not there. The two spoke in such rapid Antascian Rhys could only pick up words here and there, but he did not need to understand the language to understand the look of fear that passed over Tristan, followed by a reassuring laugh of Venya’s. She rushed from the room, Tristan watching with worry all the while until she returned in the doorframe. In an instant, Tristan’s worry was gone. He stared dumbfounded, speechless, and Venya returned to his side, Asha sleeping soundly in her arms.

“Gods..” Tristan murmured.

“Her name is Asharali, but I call her Asha,” Venya said with a smile. She shuffled closer on the bed, holding Asha out toward Tristan.

It looked as though Tristan’s arms were not even his own, extending automatically though his face remained shocked, looking toward Rhys as if needing assurance it was not all a dream. Slowly, he began to laugh, his eyes beginning to glisten with tears the moment the infant was placed in his arms. “I have a daughter,” he whispered incredulously. His eyes turned back to Venya, her own cheeks wet with tears. “I have a daughter.”

“I think I’ll let you two have some privacy. If you need anything…” Rhys’ words trailed off as it was clear neither of them had heard a word he’d said. He slipped silently from the room, turning to press his back against the wood door. His eyes stung. He was not the type easily swayed by shows of emotion, and yet here he was. Envy clawed at him, and with it a certain despair he had not let himself feel in some time. Fears of ‘what if’ filled his mind. A thousand scenarios of tragedy rather than happiness, of death rather than life. Thoughts that would consume him if he let them. And yet, as these thoughts seeped in, he pushed them away. This was a good day. A happy day. Certainly the happiest he’d seen in some time. They’d seen success and reaped its rewards. Certainly if that could not bring optimism nothing could. With a heavy sigh, Rhys steeled himself and forced a smile. Today was a new dawn. The darkness would not last; he would make sure of it.