#this didn’t even start off as Eugenia I just wanted to draw a dress and then I wasn’t sure who to put in the dress but I thought it would | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cant-think-of-anything · 3 years

Text

Pirate AU (Part Four)

TW: Violence

Cordelia sat on the rails, allowing her legs to dangle over the calm water. She enjoyed going out with her newfound acquaintances, but those stuffy dresses suffocated her. She tipped her head back, enjoying the breeze that the sea always brought when a sudden voice nearly made her topple off the ship.

“Cordelia?”

Lucie Herondale was standing behind her, staring openly. Cordelia loved that Lucie knew her name now, but all she could currently feel was the flush creeping up her face. She hoped her skin would hide it. Alastair stood behind her, clearly trying to cover up his smile.

“You didn’t tell me she was going to be here,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter around her.

“Well if you trust her so much-” he broke off with a laugh, glancing at her upfronted expression. “Less than a week Cordelia! How does one manage to blow our cover that quickly?”

“Not my fault,” She grumbled, face heating up.

They had made plans to meet up, she just hadn’t expected it to be here, when she was dressed like this. Her only comfort was that Alastair was wearing something identical, though he looked far more comfortable than she did. She ought to find someone that made her brother embarrassed the way Lucie did her.

“Eugenia?” Cordelia asked, purposefully letting her eyes stay on the sky.

“She’s with her family. I met up with her earlier.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I will be going to the city, to map the area out.”

“Map? What for?” Lucie asked.

Cordelia’s guilt gnawed away at her. It was Lucie’s family they were planning to steal from after all. She knew the Herondale’s had huge amounts of money, they certainly wouldn’t be impacted that greatly, but she didn’t want Lucie to think she was using her.

“Dinner of course,” Alastair said, his voice an intent but his words sarcastic.

He glanced at the carriage near the trees and sighed deeply before disappearing down the ladder. Cordelia knew what he really was out to do of course. When night fell Alastair would observe the bank that Mr. Herondale’s money was kept and find a way to get in without being caught. Just the night before Alastair had taken their mother to a hospital under a fake name. It was part of the reason they need money so quickly. She finally looked at Lucie.

“Why are you here?”

Lucie’s face reddened. “I can go if you wish, I just wanted to see,” she gestured wildly around them. “All of this.”

“Don’t go,” Cordelia said quickly, hopping off the railing to come sit next to her.

Lucie reached out and touched the thin material of her billowy white sleeves, her eyes widening when they fell to wear Cortana rested. Cordelia tugged the sword free of its sheath and placed it in front of her, a sign of great trust. She watched as Lucie gently ran her fingers over the words engraved in metal.

“I can’t believe you live on a ship,” she whispered, her eyes almost fervent as she looked around her. “I mean I didn’t think you were lying but still.”

Then she straightened suddenly. “I have to get back to the institute before night comes.” The words were deeply mournful, as if walking off this ship would make everything less real.

Cordelia smiled and took her hand. “I’ll come with you.”

~~~

Alastair hated London. The streets, he thought, were absolutely filthy. Repulsive even. His only saving grace was he was a few stories above the cobblestone sidewalk. His dark coat was buttoned to hide the bright white of his shirt and he had picked a pair of boots where the silver had mostly dulled. The problem with clothes that were practical for the sea was that they were very impractical for everything else. He still preferred them to suits.

The bank was further from the institute than he would have expected, meaning it was also in one of the quieter areas of the town. A shadowy figure on the street snapped him from his thoughts. He checked his pocket watch and logged the time. Night had fallen and the sky had fully darkened. He squinted and caught a flash of light brown hair. What fool, he thought, drawing a field telescope from his pocket, walked around at this hour without so much as a hat?

As it turned out, those were the least of his worries. Yet another figure came down the street. He wasn’t too concerned until the shorter of the two whipped a long narrow blade. Alastair stiffened, recognizing the weapon as a rapier immediately. But that hardly made sense unless…

Alastair drew a dagger out and unbuttoned his jacket before digging the sharp edge into the bricks lightly enough for it to slide and pushed off the windowsill.

~~~

Thomas’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He was searching for anything suspicious that connected back to Barbra but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around this. A girl, quite petite in size, was standing in front of him with a blade pointed at his chest.

The figure was completely covered, he couldn’t see any defining features that would help him place her. He jerked back, instincts taking over. He’d been looking for something suspicious, people armed with swords roaming London certainly qualified. The rational part of his mind reminded him that the killer used poison not...a pirate sword?

Suddenly she lunged, sweeping her sword out. Thomas caught her arm before she made contact, a flash of white blond hair under the hood of the person’s jacket visible. Ripping out of his grasp somehow, she pulled back as if she were about to run but was cut off by a person dropping off the building in front of them.

This one also wore a hood, but they didn’t have anything covering their clothes. A loose white shirt that tightened at the wrist, a crushed velvet vest, black breeches, and gold buckled boots that all combined to make quite a striking outfit. They straightened, hands tightened around two golden daggers. The blonde one tilted their head and then struck out. The two of them parried and lunged which should have left Thomas to feel quite awkward. Or at least he would have if he wasn’t staring. The silver haired figure whipped back from the fight suddenly, hissed something at their opponent and took off, her black cloak blending her into the night.

That wasn’t why Thomas was staring though. The man’s hood had fallen back, revealing what Thomas had to believe was one of the most beautifully crafted faces ever made. Then the other boy’s lips twisted into a scowl, his dark eyebrows pushing together as he regarded Thomas. An unpleasant expression on a very pleasant face.

“Bloody hell,” He murmured to himself before tipping his head back to look at him. “Thomas Lightwood?”

Thomas stiffened, the reality of what had happened finally sinking in. Somewhat. “How do you know who I am?” He demanded. “And what in Lord’s name was that? Who were you fighting just now?”

The man groaned and rubbed his head. “I’m going to torment you forever for this Eugenia.”

Before Thomas could question him further he cut him off. “Yes, yes I know. I suppose we’ll just add you to the list of people who know everything about us they shouldn’t?”

~~~

Lucie sat with her legs crossed in the “Sanctuary”, the name her father gave to the large room that housed a fountain along with a few murals. Cordelia was beside her, red hair turned to flames from the fireplace, her dark eyes deep with excitement as she recounted a story.

Lucie adored fiction, piled off started novels scattering her room, but there was a different sort of feeling that came with a story that she knew was true. What Cordelia was speaking about was a train robbery she and Alastair had done a few months prior to coming to London. As she put it “Those stuffy nobles hardly needed the money,” before casting an apologetic look at Lucie.

Lucie found she didn’t mind. Cordelia laughed a little as she spoke and the small noise seemed to drown out every other thought in Lucie’s mind. She hoped Cordelia would think the red on her face was because of the fire.

A sharp knock on the Sanctuary door startled her out of dreamy haze. Lucie frowned, glancing at the door, shouting for them to enter but no one did. Cordelia tensed, her body straightening as her fingers wrapped around Cortana. Somehow the room felt much colder than it did a moment before.

“Lucie-”

The sconces lighting the wall suddenly flickered out, the fireplace went dark as if it had somehow doused itself. The room plunged into near darkness, the only light filtered from the windows lining the wall. She felt Cordelia’s hand wrap around her shoulder tugging her closer to the moonlit squares on the floor.

Lucie started to speak, turning around- and then cried out, scrambling back. Cordelia wasn’t the one who had touched her. As miserable-looking as she remembered, stained dresses and faded hats stood Tatiana Blackthorn.

“Lucie,” Tatiana murmured, her voice dropping into a horrid, gravelly whisper. “How you’ve grown.”

She was unable to prevent the shiver that ran up her spine. “I don’t understand. You left after-”

Tatiana scowled viciously when her voice broke. “You don’t get to mourn my son, not when this was your family’s doing.”

Lucie stepped further away, backing up into another body. She stifled a yell, swinging her arm out. Cordelia’s callused fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I’m here.”

“That won’t do you much good Carstairs girl. I hadn’t expected the two people I was searching for to be this... closely acquainted,” she said, sneering as she looked at their locked hands, “but I suppose that makes things easier for me doesn’t it?”

She felt something cold press into her hand, glancing down to see a dagger. She turned, but Cordelia was standing in front of Tatiana now, her beautiful golden sword gripped in her hands. And then she attacked, bringing Cortana down in a large golden arc. Tatiana dodged, her hideous face twisted into a crude grin. Lucie heard the word “foolish” before Tatiana drew her own blade and slammed it into Cordelia.

~~~

Cordelia felt as if she had been punched in the arm- at first. Then it burned. She had spilled some of her mothers boiling hot tea on her a few months ago when a rather unexpected wave crept up on them but this felt as if someone had set small fires to each of her nerves. Cortana clattered to the ground, but she stayed standing, her arm clutched to her chest. She refused to fall.

Her ears were ringing but she could still hear Tatiana’s twisted laughter, and a few moments later she could see Lucie creeping up behind her, dagger in hand. Before she could cry out, stop Lucie from walking to what would certainly be her death, Lucie plunged the dagger into Tatiana’s shoulder.

The repulsive woman shrieked, more from surprise than pain she was sure. Lucie, wide eyed, moved away, her chest rising and falling fast. Cordelia tried to reach out to her but a blinding pain made her drop down to her knees. Lucie knelt next to her, pulling her up onto the chair, murmuring something, her head swiveling between Cordelia and Tatiana with panic in her eyes.

“You little wretch,” Tatiana spat, staggering to her feet and stumbling closer to Lucie as if she were drunk. “I ought to do with you what I did to the worthless twat you called your cousin.”

Lucie’s face twisted in outrage, but before she could lunge forward, Tatiana pulled a dagger from her dress and smashed it into the glass window. Without hesitation she leapt down when it broke, but there was never any noise of impact. But by that point Cordelia’s ears were already ringing too loudly.

And that was all Cordelia remembered before blacking out completely.

~~~

Apparently if you get stabbed in the chest and are bleeding out your head will feel very large. Like really, really big.

Tagging: @adoravel-fenomeno and @barbra-lightwood

#alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #lucie herondale #cordelia carstairs #lucelia #tatiana blackthorn #the last hours #tlh #tsc #grace blackthorn #my writing #tw violence

42 notes · View notes

melanielocke · 3 years

Text

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 27

AO3

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised@alastair-appreciation-month

Previous Chapter: Chapter 26

Next Chapter: Chapter 28

Thomas was still in the same position on the couch by the time Alastair reached him, both his parents on the other couch, carefully monitoring him. Thomas had put on a movie, and Alastair got the idea he was trying to ignore his parents, who both looked worried. Alastair found a way to sit beside him on the couch.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘I slept for several hours,’ Thomas said. ‘Then my parents arrived and found out I was sick and pretty much everything went downhill from there. What about you? Did you encounter anything? No offense, but you kind of smell.’

Alastair made a face. ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Seriously, what happened?’

‘A deer.’

Thomas frowned. ‘A deer?’

‘I have always been terrified of deer. Today just reminded me why. Or perhaps it wasn’t really a deer. Lucie decided to call it eldritch horror deer, which is the closest I can come to describing it. You don’t want to know more, trust me. Either way, it’s dead now, no need to worry about it.’

Ever since he’d seen his father’s memory of that monster, he’d been afraid of deer. Because that deer had looked completely normal too before he’d realized it wasn’t, and Alastair had realized anything could hide a monster.

‘So you smell of dead eldritch horror deer... It’s not so bad as after we got the skin and you had to swim through I don’t know what.’

‘This is why I don’t want to dedicate my life to fighting these things or be a hero or anything like that. Dead body parts are disgusting no matter what creature they come from and you always come back covered in gross smelly things. I’m going to take a bath. You want to join?’

Thomas turned very red, although that could have been the fever.

‘Maybe it’ll help you get warm,’ Alastair added.

He went upstairs to draw a bath, and threw in a good amount of bath foam with eucalyptus scent. Alastair loved the fresh sharpness of eucalyptus, and used many eucalyptus scented products. He quickly got into the shower while the bath was still not full, rinsing off the worst of the dirt, before inviting Thomas in and getting in the bath tub. Thomas still turned around while undressing, and Alastair politely looked in the other direction. With the amount of foam he’d used, there wouldn’t be much to see once Thomas was in the bath anyway and he understood Thomas might still be a bit awkward with this.

Thomas settled next to him, and Alastair turned on the bubbles. He tried to remember if Jem’s house had a bubble bath, but if not it needed one. He was pretty sure there was a big bathroom, at least, and as far as he remembered there was a bath tub but he had no idea what Jem had done to the place.

‘Is it alright if I lean against you?’ Alastair asked.

Thomas didn’t answer, just opened his arm and allowed Alastair to find a comfortable position leaning against his shoulder. Thomas really was warm and feverish.

‘How are you feeling?’ Alastair asked.

‘A lot better now that I’m in the bath. Still a little cold but I imagine that’ll be over soon enough. I’d slept for several hours on the couch and everything kind of hurts now. I took another two paracetamol before coming here, so hopefully they’ll start working soon. The eucalyptus scent really wakes me up though.’

‘It opens the airways,’ Alastair said. ‘Did the fever change at all?’

‘No, not really. I just took it again. It’s still around 38,5 degrees,’ Thomas said. ‘When I woke up my parents were there and I had to explain what was going on. They were kind of upset I didn’t immediately tell them I’d fallen ill and immediately started the whole routine of taking care of sick baby Thomas. Which is exactly why I didn’t tell them.’

Alastair took a hold of his hand. ‘Did you tell them why you didn’t want them to find out about your sickness?’

‘No,’ Thomas said.

‘Why not? It makes you unhappy that they are treating you this way.’

‘I don’t want to hurt their feelings,’ Thomas admitted. ‘I know they mean well, and I know they’re scared too.’

Alastair looked him in the eye. Often he forced himself to do that, make eye contact at just the right moment despite the discomfort. For a long time, he’d wanted nothing more than to be normal, and eye contact was part of that. With Thomas, it was easier. His eyes really were beautiful. The discomfort never quite went away though, so he settled his gaze on Thomas’ brow instead. People usually couldn’t tell when he was faking eye contact. It was only when he lied that he had to avoid someone’s gaze altogether.

‘So they have no clue that you hate being taken care of?’ Alastair asked. ‘You’ve never once asked them to stop and leave you be?’

‘I think sometimes they do ask if they’ve hurt my feelings,’ Thomas admitted. ‘When they’re being too protective. But in the moment, I always downplay it, I don’t want to hurt them and I understand why they’re protective.’

‘But if you want them to stop doing it, you don’t do it by hiding your sickness from them. You tell them how you feel, even if it is uncomfortable for them to hear.’

Alastair knew he wasn’t much better in that regard, he didn’t know how to deal with what he felt well. He was far more aware of what he felt than people thought, but that didn’t always mean he could explain it without feeling like he was crazy. Repressing and hiding was easier, but Alastair had learnt the hard way it made everything worse in the long run.

‘Maybe I can do that,’ Thomas said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Anytime. You had no issue telling me you didn’t like being taken care of,’ Alastair said.

‘No, I know that. I’m not sure why it’s different. Perhaps because if I tell my parents, they’ll have to feel guilty for being overprotective practically all my life, whereas you’ve never done that before. Telling you to stop would be less hurtful than it would be to tell my parents.’

‘The longer you wait, the worse it’ll get,’ Alastair said. ‘They are right to be worried, you are in danger and we’re running out of time. But that doesn’t mean they can’t change how they treat you when you’re sick.’

‘You really think that’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m going to die.’

Alastair took hold of Thomas’ hand. ‘No, you’re not going to die. I won’t let you.’

Not even if it cost him his life, Alastair told himself, but he wouldn’t say that out loud. He didn’t want to worry Thomas.

‘What else can we do?’ Thomas asked. ‘Tatiana’s gone.’

Alastair frowned. ‘Gone?’

‘My dad went into the village and asked people about her. The staff from that hotel and restaurant said she’d left, so if the plan is to go after her… We have no clue where she is. On the bright side, phones are back in order, and we’re no longer trapped.’

‘It’s not entirely true that we can’t find her,’ Alastair said. ‘Lucie did find something today, before our encounter with the monster. A locket, and a note from Jesse. How he wrote it as a ghost, I have no idea.’

Alastair’s best guess was that Jesse had grown stronger as Thomas had gotten sick, and that he could now hold things. Closer to being alive than he had been before.

‘Anyway, Lucie can summon him with the locket. Assuming he’s been around Tatiana, but I can’t imagine where else he would be. He can lead us back to her.’

Alastair knew they needed a plan, and fast. He had promised Lucie he would help her work on Barbara’s memory. So far, no success. Alastair couldn’t see dead people, and his power didn’t work on dead people. Lucie was still convinced that in between her commanding ghosts and Alastair’s access to people’s memory there was a way to witness the realm of the thief of souls. If that didn’t work, they’d have to go after Tatiana. Stopping her would at the very least save Thomas for the time being, buy them enough time to find a way to permanently defeat the thief of souls.

Grace had said he’d been a mortal once. He was not a god or a devil, or something that was meant to exist. He’d been a mortal who’d claimed a world and started stealing souls, but he was not meant to be there. Which meant he could be defeated, and Alastair was convinced that with cortana and Lucie’s magic, their chances were better than most people’s. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean those were good chances.

‘Did you call anyone?’ Alastair asked. ‘I think I should call my mother.’

‘My sisters,’ Thomas said. ‘They were both very upset. Eugenia had just gotten off her flight back from India with her friend Kamala, they’ll come here as soon as they can. Barbara’s still in Paris with her boyfriend, but she says she’s getting on the next flight.’

‘I’d love to meet your sisters,’ Alastair said.

He was nervous too, people rarely liked him, why would Thomas’ sisters? Then again, Thomas liked him, Thomas’ parents seemed to like him, so maybe he had a better chance with Thomas’ sisters than with the average person.

‘Preferably not now though,’ Thomas said. ‘I urged them not to come here, but they wouldn’t listen. I told them it would be dangerous, but they both insisted on coming and told me I couldn’t stop them.’

‘It seems the stubbornness runs in the family,’ Alastair said.

‘Dad called uncle Gabriel,’ Thomas added. ‘Uncle Gabriel tried to convince Barbara to instead come to London and watch the children for him while he and Cecily come here to help. So far, I think Barbara is insistent on coming.’

Alastair could imagine why. Even if they were hopeful, even if they had a plan, there was a chance Thomas would die. He understood Thomas’ sisters wanted to be with him in case that happened, to at least be able to say goodbye.

It was time for dinner when Alastair and Thomas got out of the bath, dried off, and dressed themselves. Thomas felt less cold, which Alastair guessed was good, but still very tired and had very little appetite. Instead of joining them for dinner, he retreated to the couch again, only eating some soup and a piece of bread. At least it was something.

Alastair had to stop himself from taking care of him. Thomas didn’t want it, he just needed some rest. Thomas put on another movie, not yet tired enough to fall asleep, and Alastair retreated to his bedroom so he could call his mother.

‘Alastair, it’s been so long since I heard from you!’ his mother scolded as she picked up.

She spoke in Farsi, and it was somehow comfortable to speak to her in her language.

‘I’m sorry, maman. A lot has been happening, and we couldn’t reach anyone outside.’

‘I think you and your sister should come home, you’re not safe there,’ his mother said.

Alastair sighed. ‘We can’t. Leaving won’t make the problems go away. Thomas needs me, and Lucie is in danger as well. Without Cordelia and her sword, neither of them stand a chance.’

‘I understand, azizam. I just wish I could know you were safe.’

‘I can’t make a any promises. But I’ll protect Cordelia. We’ll be home before you know it. Jem told us about the baby.’

‘You’re not mad, I hope?’ his mother asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Alastair said. ‘I can’t wait to meet my baby brother or sister, same for Cordelia. It is not what either of us expected, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.’

‘I haven’t seen your father,’ his mother promised. ‘I must have gotten pregnant before we left, it was an accident, but one that I am happy about. I’ll be raising the baby by myself. Risa has promised to help, of course.’

‘I’ll be there too,’ Alastair promised. ‘The baby will have everything they need.’

‘I hope you are not angry with me,’ his mother said quietly.

‘Why would I be?’

‘Because I didn’t protect you,’ his mother said. ‘I thought you could handle it, you could protect Cordelia and we would be fine. But I was wrong, protecting you was my responsibility and I failed you.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Alastair said and he meant it.

It wasn’t the first time his mother or someone else had pointed out she should have been there for him, should have protected him, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame her for it. She’d been a victim too, he’d told her, he’d told his therapist. Maybe she could have done better, she could have seen he was struggling sooner, but she hadn’t wanted to see. Father had told her Alastair’s odd behavior was normal, that teen boys went through times like that, and he’d believed her.

‘Still, I am sorry. I know you do not blame me, but that does not mean I don’t regret what I did. How has it been with the Herondales? I’d thought you would be happier there, but I never imagined all this would happen to you.’

‘It has been nice here,’ Alastair said. ‘But yes, also dangerous. Nothing to be done about that. I’m not sure if you’ve gotten any of my text, but I’ve been spending a lot of time with Thomas, and he’s my boyfriend now.’

‘Oh, that’s nice. I’m happy for you, joon-am.’

‘Me too. I’m just scared something’s going to happen to him. He’s gotten sick and I think he’s going to get worse. It’s not looking good.’

‘I know I never wanted you and Cordelia to run towards danger like Elias did. But if it saves the boy you love… I have faith in you, Alastair.’

After ending the phone call, Alastair returned downstairs to find Thomas had finished the movie and was turning off the tv. As Thomas closed his eyes and presumably fell asleep again, Alastair sought out Lucie.

‘I think we should give it another try,’ Alastair said. ‘With Barbara’s memory.’

‘You’re right. She’s at the Lightwood cottage, she doesn’t like big crowds and prefers to stay there. I’ll ask aunt Sophie.’

Lucie returned to the kitchen, where Thomas’ parents were doing the dishes, and Alastair returned to Thomas, who had his eyes opened once more.

‘I’m going with Lucie to see if we’re getting anywhere with Barbara,’ Alastair said. ‘If your parents are bothering you, you tell them, alright?’

‘I’m considering it. Kiss me before you go?’

Alastair obliged, leaning down to kiss Thomas on the mouth before leaving him to get some more rest.

‘Rest well, delbaram,’ Alastair said.

Alastair returned to Lucie and Sophie, who were on their way back to the Lightwood cottage.

‘I can’t stay here,’ Sophie said. ‘I cannot leave Thomas alone for too long when he’s so sick.’

Alastair wondered if he should say anything. He didn’t want to speak for Thomas, but it seemed clear that Sophie had no idea how Thomas really felt about his parents concern.

‘Thomas has gone back to sleep,’ Alastair said. ‘He said he wanted to rest, best to leave him until he wakes.’

Telling her not to worry felt wrong, so he didn’t. Thomas could die, of course she was worried. Alastair was too. He wasn’t sure what he’d have to do, to keep Thomas alive. He’d read a little about the ritual, and together with that memory of Gideon who’d once interrupted his father, Alastair knew how to summon the thief. Perhaps that was how he could be defeated, by bringing him here and then attacking him. Although if it was that simple, Alastair wondered why no one else had tried it.

‘Alright. Please tell me you have a plan,’ Sophie said.

‘We’re going to try to get information from Barbara,’ Alastair said. ‘Based on that, we figure out how to take on the thief of souls. If we need more time, Lucie will summon Jesse and find out where Tatiana is, confront her there and stop her. If she does not fulfill her end of the bargain, Jesse will not live and therefore Thomas will not die.’

Alastair was mostly certain of that. Mostly. There was a chance that Jesse was far enough gone that when Tatiana stopped, the thief of souls could once again choose which of Benedict’s grandsons he wanted, and let the other go. If that was the case, Alastair wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t choose Thomas.

‘And we want to find out how to defeat the thief of souls,’ Lucie added. ‘He is mad with me because I stole Barbara from him, so he’s going to come after me either way. Perhaps he even realized who my mother is. Not to mention I don’t want Jesse to go back to being trapped there.’

The three of them arrived at the Lightwood’s cottage. Even if with a ghost living in there, Alastair felt the little cottage with its adorable garden was welcoming. A nice place to spend the summer.

‘Show yourself,’ Lucie commanded, and Barbara appeared, sitting on the couch.

‘How have you been?’ Lucie asked.

‘I’m alright, thank you. The other ghost at your house can be a bit much, so I am happy to stay here for now.’

Alastair hoped Barbara meant Jessamine, and not another ghost he didn’t know about. As much as he was used to the supernatural, ghosts made him a bit uncomfortable, mostly because he couldn’t see them and he could never be sure he wasn’t being watched. At least Jessamine was far more prudish than he was and Alastair trusted her to turn around and go somewhere else when he was in the bathroom or changing or kissing Thomas.

‘We want to try once more to enter your memory,’ Lucie explained. ‘Are you up for it?’

‘Of course. Not much else here for me, I’m afraid,’ Barbara said. ‘I wish I could be of more help. It’s like it’s on the tip of my tongue, like a dream that slips away when you wake up and I just can’t remember.’

Alastair could imagine that was frustrating. It was hard for him to picture, not being able to remember something. Dreams could be trickier, and sometimes he lost them, but Alastair did not care much for dreams and would much rather not dream at all. Memories, however, could never be lost, he could never forget. At most he could get frustrated if he couldn’t find the right memory for certain information.

‘Can you command ghosts to be alive, Lucie?’ Alastair asked.

Lucie frowned. ‘I can’t bring people back from the dead.’

‘No, but perhaps temporarily. You can make ghosts visible, you can make them corporeal enough to touch things. All of those bring them closer to what qualifies as alive. Perhaps if you command them to be alive, they will be able to do all these things at once, even if for only a moment. And then I’d be able to access her memory.’

‘Alright. I’ll give it a try. Barbara, I command you to live.’

Alastair couldn’t see anything change, but when he tried to enter Barbara’s memory, he found it was there. She did put up a bit of resistance.

‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘It’s just me, you can let me in.’

Barbara relaxed, and Alastair tried to search for the right memory. Usually, people tried to recall the memory, they controlled what memory was shown, not he. But Barbara couldn’t recall what she didn’t remember. He’d found ways around that, ways to bring back lost memories. When he was younger he’d tried to restore his father’s memory of a night he’d been too drunk to remember, thinking it would help. Alastair had long given up that practice though, it didn’t make a difference. He’d believed once that if his father remembered what he did while he was drunk, he would stop. He would realize how much hurt he was causing and stop drinking. But it didn’t make a difference, and his father had mostly found it inconvenient. It was easier for him to forget.

With Tessa, he’d used a different, harder strategy of searching through association, starting with what he knew ought to be there. Jessamine, the house. Tessa still didn’t remember everything, but she was getting there.

With Barbara, he took a different approach. The trick in this case was to start at the last thing someone remembered and then speed things along a little. Alastair knew the last thing Barbara remembered, which was her fight with her husband and then her death. He tried to brace himself as he asked Barbara to remember that, hoping he wouldn’t get lost in his own memory.

They managed to start the memory after Benedict stalked off into his own study and Barbara rushed to get the children. He could tell she was confused, but took the opportunity just the same, rushing through the mansion. In the distance, he could hear a baby cry. Alastair assumed that was Tatiana. Then Barbara collapsed to the ground and Alastair felt something awfully painful in his back. Blood. The spinal cord, severed. Was it Benedict, behind her, who had stabbed her? Barbara didn’t turn around, didn’t see her attacker, but it had to be. She hadn’t dropped dead when Benedict had made the deal. She’d been murdered. Because the thief might prefer spouses, but those weren’t connected by blood, so he couldn’t kill them himself.

Alastair wondered how Benedict had gotten away with murdering his wife, a knife in her back while she was at home was hard to explain away. But then he guessed it was easy for the thief of souls to make her body disappear, or use some magic to change it to resemble a suicide. He didn’t know, had not asked Gideon what he’d once believed happened to his mother. He thought that would be too painful.

She was in pain for only a little while, and then the Lightwood’s manor disappeared. She was in a forest not unlike the one around here. It was dark and cold and gloomy. Alastair could feel the chill touch his skin. Barbara looked around, taking in the environment with great care. There were others like her. People, but there was something unusual about their eyes. Alastair couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something was not right. Those had to be the other souls. There were many of them, spread out across where Barbara could see.

‘Follow me.’

There was a woman. She looked like the others, human, but something was not right. She appeared a little more alive though, a little less broken. She seemed to be somewhat in charge here.

‘Who are you? Where am I?’ Barbara asked.

‘Follow me,’ the woman repeated.

Reluctantly Barbara followed. Alastair sped up the next part, as the walk was rather long. The woods seemed endless, which made Alastair wonder where this was exactly. In the land in between, some buildings still existed, but here there seemed to be none at all. There were souls all over though, what was their purpose? Some were doing something, carrying things Alastair couldn’t identify, working for the thief? Others wandered around aimlessly. Alastair did the best he could to take in any landmarks she passed. He never knew if he would have to navigate this realm.

At last they reached a castle. The castle the others had been dreaming about. Alastair was the only one who hadn’t dreamt and he was glad for it. Although perhaps compared to his usual dreams, nightmares about a spooky castle were an improvement.

Barbara entered the castle. Based on the gothic building style, the many sharp shapes, Alastair guessed it must have been built somewhere in late medieval time. It certainly wasn’t the style he would choose if he could live in a castle, too bleak for his taste. He’d prefer a bit more welcoming style, big windows, light and bright colors. A big private bathhouse. Old Persian style, or perhaps Roman or ancient Greek. Instead, the inside of the castle looked dreary and a bit messy. Had it been rebuilt over time, or was this an indication of how old the thief of souls was?

The woman led Barbara into the throne room. On the throne was a man with dark hair and a skin the color of paper. His eyes were red and glowing, and his head was decorated with big antlers. He’d been mortal once, so where had the antlers come from? Alastair could only say he was right that deer were scary.

‘I take it you had to walk here,’ he said.

His voice was surprisingly human, although loud and authoritative. Barbara didn’t say anything.

‘Yes, my lord, she appeared in the forest approximately seventy miles south of here,’ said the woman who had accompanied Barbara.

Seventy miles… Had Barbara really just walked that far? Alastair suspected distance was different in the land of the thief.

The red eyes glowed a little brighter. ‘Did I ask?’

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ the woman said.

She had to be one of his souls, but somehow she’d gotten a higher position in serving him. Were there more souls like this?

‘Your name is Barbara Lightwood, isn’t it?’

Barbara looked up, shaking on her feet. ‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘Barbara, Barbara… given to me by your husband. Betrayal after marriage has its use for me, but it is surprisingly common, I’m afraid. All sorts of marriages go sour and so often people have grown to hate their spouse so much they’re willing to sacrifice the soul. Still, it is an interesting sort of betrayal, a broken vow. Did you see it coming, Barbara? Were you afraid of your husband?’

Barbara was silent.

‘You are new here, and so I will be forgiving. But it does not do to ignore my questions,’ the thief of souls said, angry but calm and in control. ‘When I ask you a question, you will give me an honest answer. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes… Yes, sir.’

A small smile appeared on the thief’s face. ‘Alright then, Barbara. Amuse me. Did you see it coming?’

‘I… Yes. And no. I knew he was dangerous, I knew he might hurt me or the children. But I did not think any of this existed, or that he would choose me as a sacrifice.’

‘Intriguing,’ the thief said. ‘It has been such a long time since I was one of your kind. Your love, hate, betrayal. It is absolutely fascinating. What drives a husband to betray his wife to me? How much power do I need to offer, for them to stab someone they claimed to love in the back. Can any soul be corrupted? And what was the reason your husband first was unwilling to make a deal, but now summoned me and told me it was done and you could be mine?’

Alastair could not feel what someone else was feeling in their memories, not entirely. He got a glimpse of it, but little more. He could tell Barbara was horrified though, betrayed. And for the thief, it was a source of entertainment besides power. He seemed intrigued by the horrors humans were capable of, and loved to bring out the worst in them.

‘I was leaving,’ Barbara said slowly. ‘I knew my children and I weren’t safe there. He found out I was leaving, and got angry.’

The thief of souls laughed, his face bright. ‘Of course, that’s so often the cause. People are far more likely to sacrifice someone who is leaving them. Perhaps if you’d been a good wife and stayed, he would have let you live.’

Alastair tried to push down his anger, his sense of helplessness. This whole conversation was difficult to listen to, the way the thief was fascinated by the way people used and abused others and liked to leverage such situations to his advantage. The way he blamed Barbara for what her husband had done. He felt sick, and had no choice but to push away and leave. Both he and Barbara were on the couch, shaking. Sophie was sitting opposite to them, whereas Lucie looked like she was about to fall asleep.

‘Did you find what you needed?’ Lucie asked, suppressing a yawn.

‘More or less,’ Alastair said. ‘I got to see his realm. It is a huge dark forest and the souls are everywhere. Some have jobs, or I don’t know, serve him somehow. Many just wander around. And he was human once. Apparently, it’s not so uncommon for people who deal with him to sacrifice their spouse. Even if because of the whole blood connection thing, people have to kill their spouses themselves.’

Alastair didn’t want to think about the kind of people that did. No one in a good and healthy relationship woke up one day and sacrificed their partner for power. The thief said he wondered if anyone could be corrupted but Alastair didn’t think so. He imagined many had been abused before. It made him wonder, if he’d stayed with Charles, if Charles had known about all this, would he have been willing to sacrifice Alastair to get the power he wanted?

‘That sounds rather awful,’ Sophie said.

‘Not very romantic,’ Lucie added.

‘Marriage isn’t always,’ Alastair said. ‘Nor are relationships. Sometimes it’s less about love and more about power.’

‘Benedict was all about power,’ Barbara said. ‘At first, I thought he was good underneath that cold exterior. He could be so charming, but they so often are, aren’t they?’

‘They are,’ Alastair said, thinking of Charles.

‘I thought that my love could temper his moods,’ Barbara continued. ‘It was just like a romance novel, you know? Average woman meets cold but charming and wealthy man and her love changes him. I always loved those.’

‘I like love stories too,’ Lucie said. ‘But real life is not always like the stories. Sometimes someone is not who you think they are.’

‘Stupid, isn’t it? I should have known. I should have seen through his charm and his stupid lies.’

Alastair twisted his fingers, pained. He told himself that so often. He should have known Charles could not be trusted, should have known he only cared about himself. He should have known Charles was taking advantage of him. It had all been so obvious to Cordelia when he’d told her, so why hadn’t he known better?

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said instead, because he was still doing the best he could to convince himself of that. Funny how it was so much easier to believe it when it was someone else. ‘It’s his, and his alone.’

‘Being naïve or looking past warning signs doesn’t change that,’ Sophie added. ‘You deserved better. Your children did too. I hope you can find peace.’

Barbara smiled at Sophie through her tears. ‘I’m so happy my son found someone like you.’

#Alastair Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucie Herondale #Cordelia Carstairs #Thomastair #Lucelia #fanfiction #the last hours #tlh

18 notes · View notes

celias-archieve · 4 years

Text

Hold My Hand /Wessa, Herondales (CoI fic)

chapter 1 / chapter 2

@brotherlipsmackariahs @themostawesomehuman @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @friendlyneighbourhoodreader @zafirafox4636

It had been just a day, when James’s mother died. He killed his own mother, even thought he was possesed by his grandfather. He kept having a nightmare when he or rather Belial killed his mother. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at his father or his sister. Or anyone else from his friends and family.

Sophie and Gideon arrived with Eugenia and Thomas as soon as they heard what happened, along with Gabriel and Cecily and Anna and Christopher. Charlotte and Henry couldn’t come, as they stayed in Idris, but still promised they will come as soon as possible.

James had shut down completely. He didn’t talk to anyone. Not even to Matthew, Christopher or Thomas. No matter how much they tried to talk to him. He didn’t sleep at all, just stared at the ceiling, thinking about what he did. Or rather what he allowed Belial to do. Because he was too weak.

His mother saved him, but she did not manage to survive.

He had heard when Sophie, Gideon, Eugenia and Thomas arrived. It was an hour after everything happened. He only saw them briefly. He saw his father crying, not bothering to hide his tears.

Uncle Jem was there too. He was the first one who arrived, before Gideon, Sophie, Eugenia and Thomas. James was sure, if the Silent Brothers could cry, Jem would have.

James did however, saw a grief on Jem’s face.

After that, he returned to his bedroom, and locked himself in bedroom.

There was a light knock, so faint, that James nearly didn’t hear it.

James hesitated, before standing up, and unlocking the doors.

On the other side of doors stood Lucie, dressed in white gown, with red runes of mourning.

James clenched his fists.

“Papa told me to get you, if you wish to come with us... We are leaving for an hour.” Lucie murmured, as she glanced up at him.

Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, from endless crying for hours.

James flinched. How could she even look at him? At monster who killed his own mother?

Lucie stepped inside his bedroom, without saying anything, and sat down on his bed, while James sat down in his chair.

“No one is blaming you.” She said softly, after a few minutes of silence.

James still said nothing, but only flinch. “You should all blame me.”

Lucie frowned, reminding James painfully of their mother. But before she could say anything else, someone walked inside the bedroom.

They both looked up, and saw it was Will. He too, was dressed in white gear, and had red runes of mourning.

James had never saw his father so heartbroken. He wasn’t heartbroken like this, not even when his parents died, years ago.

Will had a dark bags under his eyes, his eyes were bloodshot from crying, he looked ghostly pale.

Will sat down silently on bed, next to Lucie. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, who leaned and put her head on her father’s shoulder.

James watched them silently for few moments, before looking away.

“Jamie,” Will said softly, and James glanced back at his father. Will gestured at him to sit next to him.

James hesitated for a moment, before he stood up, and sat next to his father.

“It is not your fault.” He said simply. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

James said nothing for minute, only clenched his jaw.

He finally spoke up, “Yes it is my fault. How can you even look at me, after what I did?”

“It was not your fault,” Will repeated, and shook his head. His blue eyes, were sad. “It was only Belial’s fault. Not yours.” Will took James’s hand and squezzed it, in comfort.

James sighed heavily, putting his head on his father’s shoulder, and started crying again.

“She knows it is not your fault.” Will whispered. “If it meant that she has to die, so she’d save you, she would have done it over and over again. Like I would have.”

An hour later, James was ready for funeral.

Thomas, Matthew and Christopher were there too, with James, in his bedroom. All of them ready for funeral.

After they talked, Will and Lucie left him to get ready. Will went to find Cecily, Gabriel, Sophie and Gideon. While Lucie went with Cordelia and Anna somewhere.

James glanced down at his bare wrist. The bracelet, Grace gave him was no longer there.

Belial took it off, once James was possesed.

Without bracelet... He felt odd.

All feelings he felt for Grace, were no longer there. As if they were not real, never were there in first place.

But feelings James truly had, were feelings for Cordelia Carstairs. She was his fianceé, and had to know of his feelings, of everything with bracelet and Grace.

He would tell her of his feelings, but not now. He couldn’t do it at the moment.

“James!”

James jumped startled, before turning around.

Christopher, Matthew and Thomas were all eyeing him worriedly.

“Are you alright, Jamie?” Thomas asked, with small frown.

James only shook his head, as he sat down on his bed. “This really seems.... Like nightmare. All I am thinking, this is some nightmare. And if I look for mum in institute, she’ll appear. But I know that’s just my wish.” James whispered, his golden eyes filling with tears.

Matthew sat down next to James, and reached out squeezing his shoulder. “It’s alright, Jamie. It’ll get easier eventually.” He said softly.

James only took a shaky breath, and nodded.

“We should leave.” Christopher said.

Thomas and Matthew nodded in agreement.

Matthew stood up, but James was still sitting down. “James, if you don’t wish to go, you don’t —“

“No, no. I am going.” James said firmly, and stood up, leaving his bedroom, with Thomas, Christopher and Matthew following him.

They walked in silence, towards the drawing room, where everyone else was waiting for them.

When James reached the drawing room, he opened the doors quitely. In the drawing room was his father, his sister, and the rest of their family and close friends.

James’s gaze fell on his father, who was sitting on one of the armchairs, and talking with Sophie and Gideon.

It was strange seeing Will without Tessa sitting next to him. James couldn’t help but wonder, would it get easier eventually, like Matthew said? He couldn’t even imagine his father’s pain. Was it same like James’s and Lucie’s?

No, perhaps not. First he lost his parabatai —even thought Jem was still alive, but he was still a silent brother. And then Will lost his wife, years later.

Perhaps, maybe it was harder for his father. Because part of him died a few hours ago. Not just him, but part of Jem too.

Will stopped talking with Sophie and Gideon, and looked up at his son, his face was unreadable.

Will stood up, and everyone glanced at him, “We should leave.” He said, not taking his eyes of his son.

James looked around all the familiar faces in drawing room. Some were dressed in white gowns, some in white gear.

He felt like he is drowning, he couldn’t breathe properly. His vision became blurry, and was filled with black dots. James took a several steps back.

“James? Jamie!” Matthew reached out for James, but James ran away. Even as his father along with Matthew called out for him.

He returned back to his bedroom, gasping for air. He closed the doors, and slid to floor, leaning against them.

“James. Breathe, Jamie.” It was a familiar warm voice, James loved more than anything.

The air suddenly changed, he shivered when he felt slightly cold shift in air. He looked up, and saw it was a ghost. A very familiar one.

It was his mother. Her brown curls floating around her like a waterfall.

James’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Mum,” James whispered. “I am so sorry, I—“

“It is not your fault, Jamie. I did it to save you. And I would have done it again.”

“I am so sorry for everything what happened,” James whispered, and began crying. “I can’t forgive myself for what I did —“

“James, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself. It’s all Belial’s fault.” Tessa said softly.

“You — You don’t blame me for what happened?” James breathed heavily.

“My sweet boy, I would never blame you. I love you so much, both you and Lucie. And your father, and Uncle Jem uncoditionally.” Tessa said, with small smile. And then she vanished, before James could say anything else.

At that moment James felt slightly better, with everything what his mother told him.

Even if she was just a ghost, when she told him that.

And eventually with time, James learned not to blame himself. Despite how hard it was at the beginning, at one point it got easier eventually for himself and his sister, with loss, much like Matthew said it would be.

It was a harder for his father, but Lucie and James were always there for him, whenever he needed it.

#james herondale #will x tessa #will herondale #tessa herondale #tessa gray #wessa #james x cordelia #lucie herondale #tlh fic #thomas lightwood #christopher lightwood #matthew fairchild #my fanfic #my writing

44 notes · View notes

hmhteen · 5 years

Text

HMH Teen Teaser: ONCE A KING by Erin Summerill!

The holidays are right around the corner, and do we have a gift for you: an excerpt of ONCE A KING, the new standalone fantasy from Erin Summerill publishing 12.4! While fans of EVER THE HUNTED will find some nice easter eggs in this book, it’s a total standalone about the noble journey a young king takes to ensure lasting peace in his kingdom. (It’s also about falling in love with someone you really, really shouldn’t.)

Scroll down to read the first two chapters!

CHAPTER ONE- Lirra

I lean against the dusty elementiary shelf crammed with books and jars of animal bits, and stare at my father’s letter. His nearly indecipherable scratch strikes me with swift disappointment. Gods, the All Kingdoms’ Summit happens only every five years. It’s not as if Da hasn’t had time enough to arrange his schedule. The remainder of Da’s message is blocked by another letter. It’s sealed in my father’s wax and addressed to someone named AC. My heartbeat slogs through my ears, muting the chatter of mismatched accents and clatter of carriage wheels outside the Elementiary. What a fool I am for thinking this time Da’s priori- ties would include something other than busi- ness. Having worked for my father for five years, I know better than to be hurt by this news. Just as I know, without reading further, Da needs me to deliver the letter to AC.

I suppose it also shouldn’t be surprising that there’s no note here for the littleuns or Eugenia, my stepmother and worrier extraordinaire. Overwhelmed by black-market trade and valuable secrets, Da tends to forget all else.

“Lirra, you done?” Orli’s clipped tone echoes from the other side of the shelf.

I fold Da’s letter, intending to finish it later, and squeeze my fingers along the parchment seam. One, two, three sharp slides.

“Almost,” I call out, and shove the now-empty box back into concealment behind a jar of rat tails. To maintain our family’s anonymity and safety, Da sends correspondences here for me to retrieve in secret. He trusts few people more than Astoria, the Elementiary owner and my former magic teacher.

“What’d he write?” Orli asks when I come into view.

My best friend is standing by the door, trapped in a stream of dusty light, right hand strangling the doorknob, the usual tawny tone leached from her knuckles. Despite her unease with Channeler magic, she’s accompanied me here every week since Da left.

“He won’t be returning for a while.” I pick at the broken seal.

“You mean he’ll miss the start of the tournament, right? He’ll return for the jubilee and the other summit festivities.”

I shake my head.

Raven brows shoot up. “He’s going to miss your jubilee performance?”

My nail wedges under the last bit of red wax and frees it from the parchment. “Aye.”

Astoria has one hand on her cane and the other clutch- ing a pile of books, going about business as she usually does whenever I slip inside the Elementiary to pick up Da’s mail. She ambles out of the backroom to her desk, where she deposits the stack. I’m not entirely sure she’s noticed me until she lifts an age-spotted finger to shove her spectacles higher and then points to the letter in my hand. “Not what you were hoping?”

I slip it into my satchel and force a smile. “That’s the way it is with Da’s business.”

“Oh, dear girl.” She frowns. “And it’s your first year enter- ing the jubilee.”

The sadness magnified in her watery blue eyes sours my mood.

My gaze drops to the ring of dirt darkening the hem of my day dress.

There’s a shuffle thump of steps on the wood floors, and then Astoria’s arms come around me, squeezing me to her wonderfully round body.

“Your da knows it’s important to you.” The love she radi- ates makes me feel like a cat basking in the sun. “He’d be there if he could.”

Astoria has been Da’s friend and closest confidant since before my birth. She offered us a safe place to hide at her home in Shaerdan after we escaped Malam’s Purge — the Channeler eradication that would have seen me killed for my magic ability. We have lived near her ever since. She understands Da better than anyone, but I don’t want to hear her talk him up right now.

“She knows,” Orli says. “All set to go, Lirra?” Her despera- tion to leave the Channeler school is as potent as the scent of lavender here.

“You don’t have to leave so soon.” Astoria returns to her desk. “Come away from that door and sit down.”

“We need to run by the docks. Getting through all the visi- tors’ carriages will take time.” Orli points to the blown-glass windows. Outside, a rainbow of fabric has assaulted Shaer- dan’s capital city of Celize. Passersby wear their kingdoms’ colors like a shield. Usually, the northern edge of town, where the cliffs climb up from the docks, sees little traffic. Travelers have invaded all of my hometown, even the quiet roads stretching east into farmlands and forests. Scores of people from the four neighboring kingdoms have been arriving for days in anticipation of the All Kingdoms’ Summit and festivities — the Channeler Jubilee, the Tournament of Cham- pions, and the Kingdoms’ Market.

“Orli is right,” I say. “We need extra time to look at the crowds.” I have things to pick up for my jubilee exhibit that can’t wait until tomorrow.

Astoria fiddles with the wrist button of her dress sleeve. “See you next week?”

I nod, even though it’s uncertain if she’s referring to the jubilee showcase or my next mail visit. My head is stuck on a memory from five years ago. At the last jubilee, Da and I watched from the sidelines. Channelers from across the king- doms showed displays of magic. Breathless and awed, I confessed my dream to perform at the next jubilee.

Next week’s jubilee.

Da said he wouldn’t miss it for all the world.

***

Silence is the sweetest sound in the Barrett home, and such a rare thing to be had. It’s alarming how loud the boards creak underfoot as Orli and I sneak inside the back door, both of us carrying packages from the dock market. Packages that could be easily snapped in half by my younger brothers’ grubby fin- gers.

“Where is everyone?” Orli mouths.

I shake my head. The kitchen is filled with the usual mess, minus my family. Dirty dishrags lie heaped in a pile on Grandmother’s table beside a discarded, half-finished drawing of a pig — or an owl. I cannot tell. A stale odor lingers in the air like a haunt of last night’s leek-and-carrot soup. And then there’s the crock of Eugenia’s morning pottage, still sitting on the sooty hearth.

“Eugenia?” Never one to miss a Monday service, my stepmother drags the littleuns to the cathedral on the cliff each week as penance for Da’s profession.

No one answers.

I abandon my protective crouch around the wrapped wooden dowels. “The carriages on the road must’ve slowed her travel.”

“Do you think it’s odd that Eugenia will make peace over Millner’s sins and then spend his earnings the next day?” Orli asks as we head down the hall toward the attic ladder that hangs in a permanent lowered position.

“When you talk about my da’s business like that, it sounds wicked.”

“It’s not exactly saintly. Your father sells secrets to the high- est bidder. Not produce or pelts.”

“He’s an information trader.” I shrug off her comment, not eager to discuss my father.

Orli’s head falls back, and she explodes with laughter. “That’s a new one. Though a bit much for Millner Barrett. Maybe something like high ruler of the black market would be more accurate.”

I laugh. At least she didn’t call him Archtraitor, the infamous title he earned for defying the Malamian regent, evad- ing capture, and building a secretive life in Shaerdan. It gets under my skin.

“My point is, she repents one day and spends his money the next.” Orli follows me up to the attic room. She flops on my bed while I sit on the floor and arrange the dowels from largest to smallest. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Was that a note of irritation? I leave the packages lined up like soldiers before their captain. “What’s this about?”

Gone is the easy smile she wore after leaving the Elementiary. Was today too much for her? Were the crowds over- whelming?

“I know what you’re thinking, and that’s not it.” Orli slides her dark braids out of her face. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“Nothing is nothing.”

“That makes no sense.”

I pinch her toe. “It means if something’s important to you, it’s important to me. No secrets.”

She points to the packages. “Don’t you want to finish un- wrapping those before your brothers get home?”

I don’t even glance down. “Subject change? Beginner’s move. You know I have more self-control than that.”

She guffaws. “A fox in a henhouse has more self-control than you.”

“Exaggeration.”

“Is it?” A little light brightens her stormy eyes. “I’m sore over Eugenia’s soil order, is all. Satisfied?”

“The one for cabbage?” Wasn’t that weeks ago?

“You know how the growing season is. Mum hasn’t been able to enhance the soil.” Late spring to summer means increased hours on Orli’s family farm. Especially for her mum, who earns extra money by selling magic-infused soil for growing vibrant, pest-resistant plants. Altering the soil drains her energy, a cost all Channelers pay, which slows production.

“Has Eugenia been pestering her?” Even though Eugenia isn’t a Channeler, she knows Channelers need time to restore energy.

I tear the packaging off the dowels to feel their notched ends, all sanded to a silken texture. The largest dowel, bal- anced on my open palm, is impossibly light. Almost weightless. The wood’s scent is balsa and musk. A humid summer day and freedom.

“It’s my mum.” Orli’s tiptoe-quiet response brings me back to the room. “She wants me to fill Eugenia’s order. She thinks I’m ready.”

“What do you think?”

She doesn’t answer. A year ago, Orli was kidnapped as part of an attempted coup in Malam. The former regent was intent on siphoning magic from Channelers and combining the sto- len energy into the ultimate weapon to use against the young king. I was part of the effort to rescue her, and ever since, Orli has been plagued with nightmarish memories and constant fears. It took months before she was able to leave her farm and venture into public. But she has yet to use her Channeler magic.

“I would help, but all I’m good for is blowing dirt around your farm.” I nudge her knee.

Channelers have influence over one energy — land, air, fire, water, or spirit. Orli and her mother have the ability to manipulate the land, while I can harness the wind.

“That’s all you’re good for?” Orli rolls her eyes. “It’d have to be a small pile. Dirt’s heavy.” “You’re full of hot air, you know that?”

“Better than dirt in the ears.”

We both laugh, never too old for Channeler puns. “Truthfully,” Orli says, more serious. “All you’ve done this year is impressive.”

Does she realize she’s come far this year too? I open my mouth to tell her as much, but she cuts me off. “Don’t be modest. I wasn’t even referring to what you did for me.” Her voice cracks with emotion.

My throat burns too. Dammit.

“I’d do it again,” I whisper, knowing exactly how hard it was to find her. To free her.

Orli rubs her eyes, and then shoves me in the leg and adds an annoyed look. “Don’t make me teary. I’d do the same for you, fool.”

I know she would.

She scoots off the bed and sits cross-legged on the floor. “What I’m trying to say is what you’ve done with your gliders is a big deal. You use your magic in a different way than we grew up learning. Everything we created was from our energy. Like my mum and the soil. She has to sacrifice herself for every batch of stupid dirt. But your gliders are different.”

“I use my magic to make them,” I say, confused. “No, you use magic to test them. To see if they’ll fly.”

This much is true. I wanted to build a contraption that would allow my brothers to glide in the sky without me having to conjure wind.

“Anyone, Channeler or giftless, can follow your pattern and make their own glider. You’re going to show people a new way of looking at Channelers. Maybe they’ll even see that we shouldn’t be feared.”

She’s exaggerating. But . . .

“Maybe, hopefully, it’ll inspire a few people,” I say, though the possibility makes me feel like I’ve ingested a swarm of lightning bugs.

A door slams in the house, and a herd of elk rumbles through the hallway below. Eugenia shouts, “Not inside!”

“Sorry, Mum!” I hear my brothers say before the stampede alters course.

I rush to rewrap the dowels and hide them under my bed. “Do you want me to talk to her about the soil? Or are you ready?” I hate pressuring Orli, but she has to use her magic again one day. May as well be helping her mum and Eugenia.

“I’ll figure something out. I’ll be fine.” Her expression shutters closed.

She thinks my winged inventions will change how people see Channelers. Maybe she’s right. But what will it take to inspire her? To prove that her magic isn’t to be feared?

I go downstairs to greet Eugenia in the kitchen and find her plucking dirty rags off the table.

“Any word from your da?” she asks.

“No.” It’s better not to mention he wrote me about busi- ness. When Da is working, Eugenia likes to pretend he’s just taking a trip to visit friends. She won’t acknowledge his meth- ods of collecting and profiting off secrets if she can help it.

“Do you think he’s all right?”

“He’s been gone for longer stretches, and he always returns safely.” I’ve become adept at managing Eugenia’s worry.

Her hands knot in a dishrag. “Right. Of course. I’m sure he’ll return for the festiv —”

The rear door smacks against the wall, startling us both. The twins race inside, skidding into their mother’s feet.

Eugenia drops the rag, and screeches. “Boys!”

Despite her runny emotions, she lunges for them as they try to scramble away. Loren bangs into the table and upends a chair. Kiefer hunkers beside the hutch.

“What has gotten into you two?” “Sorry, Mum,” the boys chant.

“We don’t run in the home. Look at this dirt. I just swept the floor, and now I’ll have to do it again.”

Loren rubs his hip. “Wasn’t running, Mum. Just some quick moving.”

“Save your quick movement for outdoors. Hear me?”

“But what of Lirra?”

“What about me?” I ask.

Loren’s smile switches into something sly, like a youthful image of Da, all dimpled tanned cheeks, stocky frame, and windblown curls the color of wet driftwood. I’ve always longed to look more like them instead of a reminder of my mum, with nearly black hair so thick it could be roof thatching.

“Lirra does whatever she pleases.” Loren turns pathetic cow eyes on Eugenia. “She don’t follow rules.”

If only that were true.

“And I’ve seen her run in the house.” Little toad. “You have not.”

“Have too.”

I turn to Eugenia for support. Working for Da requires liv- ing by another set of rules, something Eugenia knows even if she doesn’t like it.

“You don’t go to church.” Loren points at me. “You sneak out at night. And sometimes you go around with mud on your face. Mum always makes us wash our faces. Doesn’t she, Kief?” Kiefer, the more silent twin, peeks around the hutch. “I seen mud on Lirra.”

“Get back in your hiding spot,” I growl at him before spin- ning to face Loren. “Don’t pull me into this. You were foolish enough to get caught, so say you’re sorry already.”

He starts to complain, and Eugenia silences him with a look. The boys rush toward freedom in the shape of the back door. That’s when I notice the specks.

Specks coating their trousers.

Specks on Loren’s boots.

Specks that look an awful lot like wood shavings?

“Stop! Where have you two been?”

“Outside.” Loren smirks over his shoulder.

“Where outside?”

“The shed.”

“Which. Shed.” My nostrils flare. Kiefer cringes.

“Lirra, let them go,” Eugenia says.

My glider wings are in that shed. If the boys touched them . . . “Tell me. Or this week at the summit festivities, I’ll find the she-pirate, Song the Red, and pay her to sail you to Kolontia. The north is terribly cold. So cold that men and boys lose toes and feet and even legs. How fast will you run without legs, hmm, Loren? Tell me now — woodshed or my shed?”

“Yours,” Kiefer blurts. His cherry cheeks turn pale pear green. “We only wanted a peek.”

“We didn’t touch nothing, promise.” Loren presses his hands together in a prayer. “Spare me legs, Lir.”

I hold in a smile. “Keep your stubby limbs for now, Loren. But if you —”

Eugenia scoots them out the door. “Don’t be hard on them.”

“They need to keep their dirty hands off my things.” “What do you expect, Lirra? They look up to you, and you

run around breaking rules as if you’ve no responsibilities.” “No responsibilities?” Anger twists through me faster than the twin tornados could destroy my stuff. “My responsibilities force me to break rules. My job for Da requires it.”

She yanks a pin out of her bun, and her hair topples like a bird’s nest breaking apart. “Don’t pretend to be dedicated to your da’s work when you spend all your time on gliders.”

I gape at her, wounded by the insinuation. My family mat- ters most. If Da asked me to pay more attention to his business, I’d do it. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t include me in every deal. He doesn’t share all his secrets, as much as I’d like him to.

“What of your dedication?” I stomp to the window and point at the carriage parked inside the barrier of trees conceal- ing our home. “Every week you visit the cathedral and make penance. Maybe instead of praying so much, you should no- tice how hard Da works for you. For the family.”

Eyes widen over a stone expression. “Nonsense. You’re angry because the boys were curious. I understand that, but you cannot blame them. Your contraptions look like children’s toys.”

Children’s toys? Will the jubilee organizers think my glider is child’s play too?

My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. “Was it curiosity when they broke your Plovian vase? The vase you insisted Da buy with his black-market money? Don’t be a hypocrite.” It comes out like spat venom.

Last year the twins knocked over the vase. Eugenia was shattered. That same colorless devastation overtakes her expression now.

A baby’s cry peals from the hallway.

I bite my vindictive lip. “I — I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Julisa’s awake.” Eugenia gives me a look of defeat and leaves.

I return to where Orli is waiting for me in the attic, my chest stuffy and hot with frustration. And shame.

It’s not her fault that Da is gone. Or that he takes on too much work and doesn’t allow me to help manage the load. He has me deliver messages to informants, listen to private conversations, and track people’s habits, but he never asks for more. He tries to manage most of the work alone.

Loren and Kiefer are too young to help, and I doubt Eugenia would let them get involved in Da’s business even if they were older. I’m the only one he can lean on. It’s up to me to help him. Eugenia is right. I should be focusing on Da’s letter, not my gliders.

“Whoa, what happened?” Orli watches me climb the lad- der. “You look ready to practice dagger throwing on a live tar- get.”

I dig through my satchel for the letter. I peel it open and remove the letter to AC.

Hullo Beetle,

I’ll not be returning in time for the summit.

The rest of the page is blank.

“This cannot be all there is.” I flip it over. Da would never use this much parchment for so short a note, or ask me to deliver a letter with no instructions. His message must be here, hidden.

Orli peers over my shoulder and hums to herself.

I trace the blank page. “I wonder if he used a blood charm. Da’s never used one before. Blood charms are illegal, and even if they weren’t, they’re hard to come by,” I say, remembering what Astoria taught us. “But it would explain why there are no words.”

She releases a shuddery breath and taps the letter. “Right. And we are talking about Millner.”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” I pull a dagger from my boot.

Orli sits on the bed, trembling fingers sliding under her thighs. “Go on.”

I hate that magic makes her uncomfortable. But I have to know what Da wrote. I sink the blade’s tip into the fleshy pad of my finger. A crimson drop bubbles from my skin and drips onto the ivory parchment, fanning out as it seeps into the surface.

Hullo Beetle,

I’ll not be returning in time for the summit.

If you’re reading this, you figured out the blood charm. The following job must be completed immediately and privately. As you can tell, secrecy is of greatest importance.

To fulfill an agreement I’ve made with the king of Malam, you must deliver the enclosed letter to him. Don’t curse. I know this assignment will displease you, but it must be done.

The king’s letter has also been sealed with a blood charm. You’ll find nothing there if you attempt to peek. Please explain to King Aodren how these types of charms are activated. The man’s Channeler knowledge is in the budding stage.

Deliver the letter before the summit is underway. It cannot be late. Tell no one and go unseen.

Give my love to Eugenia, the boys, and Julisa. Love, Da

“Bloody stars.”

I’m not displeased. I’m furious.

What deal has my father made? King Aodren cares noth- ing for Channelers. Hell, his kingdom has encouraged the hunting of Channelers for the last twenty years. This is why my father and I were forced to flee Malam and live in Shaer- dan. King Aodren may have ended the Purge Proclamation, the horrific law that was responsible for the deaths of countless Channelers in Malam for the last twenty years, but he did so out of desperation. Last year, King Aodren needed the Channelers Guild, the governing women who oversee all Channelers in the five kingdoms, to save his life and help stop a plot to usurp the throne.

My efforts to save Orli caused my path to cross Aodren’s. I was the one who introduced him to the Guild, and I even saved his life in battle. But has he ever expressed his gratitude for either?

No. Not at all. Ungrateful lout of a king. King Aodren cares only about himself.

Da has all sorts of unsavory business associates, and though I dislike it, it’s not so shocking to discover King Aodren is a new one. Royal coin is as good as commoner coin. What I don’t understand, however, is why the king of Malam needs help from Da, ruler of the underground.

I press my fist to the sudden bloom of ache in my belly. I want to forget this request and finish my glider. But Eugenia’s comment earlier nags me. Da needs me. And maybe this is the way to finally prove he can rely on me.

CHAPTER TWO- Aodren

My attention catches on a flash of colors as gold and blue Shaerdanian tunics enter the far end

of the mud-streaked training yard. Not count- ing the half dozen guards standing at attention nearby, until now Leif and I have had the field alone to spar. The two newcomers must be the men who have been chosen to represent Shaerdan’s ruler, Chief Judge Auberdeen, in the upcoming Tournament of Champions at the All Kingdoms’ Summit.

When the tournament first began, each king- dom’s ruler and their second fought a mock bat- tle to prove their strength and leadership mettle. Decades ago, after the Plovian king lost his life, the rulers decided participation was too dangerous, and tradition changed. Now the most skilled warriors in the land vie to fight in place of their leader.

Leif, the first of my chosen competitors, swings his prac- tice sword through the air. I thrust upward to block. It’s too late. His waster slams my left arm. Bone-rattling pain lances from elbow to shoulder, and my weapon hits the ground.

Godstars! “Solid strike.” I suck a breath between my teeth to temper the pain.

“Are you whistling, sir?” Leif chuckles.

Glaring, I straighten my posture, regain some of the dig- nity he knocked away, and switch to breathing through my nose, despite the moisture that clings to my nostrils. Shaer- dan’s humidity is also out to kill me today.

“I shouldn’t have landed that,” Leif says in a low voice. In my periphery, I notice one of the ever-present guards avert his gaze, and I wonder if he heard Leif’s comment. It’s too sympa- thetic for the captain of the royal guard — the elite force of the most skilled combatants in Malam. He needs to control that emotion if he and Baltroit, the other Malamian competitor, are to prove they’re the best fighters in the five kingdoms. Grit wins tournaments, not sympathy.

The last All Kingdoms’ Summit was five years ago, and I didn’t attend. It’s more important than ever that we have a good showing during the tournament. We must prove to the other leaders, my late father’s peers, and to Malamians that Malam is worthy of being here. That I am worthy of being here.

I roll out my bruised shoulder. “I shouldn’t have let you. On the battlefield, distraction means death.”

Leif watches the Shaerdanians through the slits in his helmet. “Lucky there’s no risk here.” He reaches for the fallen practice waster and swings it in an arc. “Not with this blunted sword.”

I move into position. “Enough talk.”

“Oh, you’re recovered? Ready to get beat?” Exhaustion helps Leif forget himself, a benefit of our sparring sessions. Too often, he lapses into the formality he feels the captain of the royal guard should maintain around the king. He forgets I am just a man and he is my closest, if not only, friend.

Chuckling, I switch grips to take the sword in my domi- nant right hand. “Captain and court jester, let’s see how you fare now.”

He snorts and swings his waster. I’ve spent the last six months training with Leif. I’ve studied his movement. He is quick, but I’m faster. I block his blade and push my weight into his. He stumbles. A vulnerable space opens between his elbow and ribs, and I strike. Leif grunts against the pain.

The rhythm of our clanks and curses echoes across the yard. This rigorous sparring session keeps Leif competition- ready for the Tournament of Champions. And it tempers the uneasiness that came on earlier today when my traveling retinue exited the forest and first beheld Shaerdan’s sum- mer castle. The stone fortress is designated for all leaders and dignitaries during the summit and sits north of Celize like a solemn gray throne.

My absence from the last summit sparked rumors that spread like a scourge. King Aodren’s too young. Soon he’ll be just like his hateful father and the blood-spilling regent. Malam’s people are divided, and the kingdom is weak. Under King Aodren, only time remains until the kingdom falls.

Malam’s history has more shameful spots than the sky has stars.

My father was a prejudiced man, whose fear of Channel- ers spread to his advisers and led to the Purge — a kingdom- wide Channeler eradication spanning nearly two decades. The feverish hunt for magic users turned neighbor on neighbor. After my father died when I was a child, a regent ruled until I came of age. He closed the Malamian borders so no one could leave or enter Malam. Trade halted and our economy suffered. This dark time was further blackened when, a year ago, the regent didn’t want to relinquish power. He led a coup, killing hundreds of citizens and half of Malam’s nobility.

The rumors hold some truth — I am the youngest ruler at the summit, my people are divided between support and opposition for Channelers, and Malam has been weakened.

But I won’t be my father.

I won’t allow Malam to fall.

When Leif and I are both aching and bruised, we stop fighting. I lean on my sword, breath sawing through my lungs. Leif tugs off his helmet. He swipes sweat from his beard and shakes out his hair. The usual amber color is now a slick mud- brown. “I could sleep till the first night of the tournament.”

My thoughts as well. However, “It wouldn’t do well to miss dinner.”

Leif mutters an unenthused agreement.

Once our gear is stored in the yard house, two guards follow me and Leif off the field.

“See how in sync they are?” Leif glances at the Shaerdani- ans before they’re out of sight. “If Baltroit would practice here, we’d have a better chance of winning the cup.”

I scratch the day’s stubble on my jaw. The summit, the tournament, and the jubilee are key factors in turning Malam’s tide. We must do well in all three. When Lord Segrande insisted his son be chosen as the second competitor, I complied. Segrande was integral in the negotiations to re-open trade with Shaerdan, and going forward, his support is necessary to boost Malam’s economy. While Segrande and I form alliances and trade agreements during summit meetings, Baltroit and Leif will be fighting in the Tournament of Champions.

Thousands of Malamians have traveled to Shaerdan to at- tend the events. A tournament win will inspire pride. It’ll give Malamians a reason to rally together. A reason to set aside their differences. And hopefully, later, a reason to spread unity back in Malam.

Baltroit is a fierce fighter, but he’s arrogant and refuses to train with Leif. While I could order Baltroit to the practice yard, it may offend Segrande, who has spent as much time training his son as I have with Leif.

“He won’t let us down,” I say, determined. “The two of you will do well.”

Leif shoots me a look that argues otherwise.

The castle’s grand hall is a clamor of voices, thuds, and scrapes, all under the aroma of rosemary and bread. As we pass through, conversation dims and everyone in sight bows. Our boots clack loudly against the stone stairs leading to the third floor, where Malam’s private rooms are assigned. The two guards who followed us from the practice field take up posts at our closed corridor, while Leif enters my chambers.

He points to the stack of letters on the desk. “The courier delivered these to the castle. Also, the welcome meal will begin in two hours.”

Half of Malam’s fiefs have new leadership, and the repeal of the Purge Proclamation has made it possible for Channelers to return to Malam. A difficult transition, to say the least. To stay abreast of brewing tension, each lord reports on his fiefdom. Even during the summit.

“Inform Lord Segrande and tell him to come to my cham- bers at a quarter till.” I start toward the washroom.

Leif lingers. “Your Highness, one more thing.”

Your Highness. Few dare meet my eye, let alone speak to me directly. Some decorum is expected, but Leif’s slip back into formality is aggravating. And isolating. “I’m scarcely six months older than you, and not a quarter-hour ago, you were trying to hit me with a practice sword. Call me by my given name.”

“You’re the king.” He coughs into his fist.

“I’m aware. Trust me, rigid formality isn’t always requisite. Understood?”

“Aye.” His gaze shifts to the door. “At tonight’s dinner, though, it’ll be formal. Yes?”

“Yes. But you may talk with the other dignitaries.”

“I — I’m not sure I can.” A maroon tint stains his neck. He yanks his beard. It’s hard to reconcile the man before me with the bear from the practice field. “Thing is, talking is not my strength.”

Leif has notable battle experience, good rapport with the royal guard, and is unfailingly loyal, but he is also new to nobility. Too busy trying to bring Malam out of the darkness, I’ve overlooked his greenness.

“Talk about the tournament,” I suggest. “King Gorenza will no doubt have much to say, since his youngest son is com- peting.”

“Could work.” He focuses on the floor stones for a long minute. “I won’t be skilled like Captain Omar was with con- versation. But I’ll try.”

I laugh, loud and irreverent. The long day is bringing out Leif’s wit and humor.

But he doesn’t join in, his mouth is pressed into a grim line.

Oh gods. Is he serious? My previous captain spoke in mono- syllabic sentences.

“Leif.” I restrain my laughter. Composure has been drilled into me since birth. “Omar used to say it’s the message that matters. Remember that. Treat this dinner like those at Castle Neart.”

“I mostly talk to Britta at Castle Neart. She’s not here.” The comment comes unexpectedly.

The words settle over me like a scratchy wool throw. Britta and her husband are on their wedding trip instead of attending the summit. It’s odd to consider her married, since I once hoped she would share my life. But . . . Britta is on my council. We will continue to work together. She will still be a friend.

“You’ll do fine,” I say, tone clipped.

Silence, and then, “Certainly, sir.” Leif bows and leaves my chambers.

So much for convincing him to use my name. I walk to the desk and study the letters, though it’s a fight to focus on any one of them. Perhaps Leif is right to remind me that friend- ships should be the furthest thing from my mind right now.

My focus must be Malam.

***

Correspondence to Aodren Lothar Cross, King of Malam:

March 25

To the King our Most Sovereign Lord,

By dictate of your wise council, I begin my monthly report of the affairs concerning my humble fiefdom. The abolishment of the Purge Proclamation has been posted in the markets and common areas, and all countrymen have received notice of the new law sealed by your great hand. May the news be received well. Or perhaps I should write, may the news be received better than it has been thus far. I’m certain those displeased with the return of Channelers will soon welcome the newcomers.

Last, Sir Chilton, who inherited the bordering fiefdom after Lord Chamberlain was killed in the tragic attack on the castle, has struggled to manage his lands. The poor lad. If he needs to be relieved of his land, I offer my guardianship.

Your servant,

Lord Wynne of Jonespur

April 19

To the King, Lord of Malam,

This past month, four Channeler families returned from Shaerdan to reclaim lost lands. Unfortunately, their return was met with opposition — one barn fire, three travel carts destroyed, and numerous fights in the market square. I wish I could report these numbers amounted to less than last month.

In addition, the ore mine can no longer keep men employed until trade demand increases. The line of needy outside the church has doubled. And yet traders continue to come from Shaerdan. Considering Malamians have no coin to buy Shaerdanian goods, the traders must be foolishly optimistic.

Regardless, I hope the bordering kingdoms will welcome our trade soon. They cannot turn us away forever.

Your loyal man, Lord Xavier Variant

April 24

To King Aodren Lothar Cross of Malam,

Difficulties have arisen as returning Channelers have declared ownership and sought possession of land that has been in another’s hand for nearly two decades. Last week, a disagreement led to the destruction of two alfalfa fields, a Channeler booth in the marketplace, and a clergyman’s entire cart of bread for the needy. It’s impossible to say if these actions were meant to harm. I believe they were intended to scare.

Scribe for the Lord of Tahr, Sir Ian Casper

May 5

To the King our Most Sovereign Lord,

Though your wise changes in the law dictated that the market be open to all, the appearance of Channelers has caused disturbances. Truly, I do all I can to keep peace. Channelers have been so bold as to ask friends and family to boycott the merchants that have refused business to persons of magic.

However, not all merchants have excluded Channelers. A new trader in the market square has been selling Channeler-made healing balms. A portion of townspeople have shown interest in his goods. One remedy gaining popularity is called Sanguine. It is a healing oil, and quite effective from what I’ve heard. Perhaps it could be a boon to our economy.

As always, I am humbly dedicated to overseeing my fief’s needs, just as I could be with any additional land you might wish to grant upon me.

Your servant,

Lord Wynne of Jonespur

May 22

To King Aodren,

Calvin Bariston of Fennit passed on from injuries sustained in a tavern fight. It’s uncertain who stabbed him, since he first stabbed two other men and one woman. Calvin was acting erratic, and was, we believe, possessed by a devil.

Rumors started that the cause was the Channelers. Those rumors were quickly proved unfounded.

Scribe for the Lord of Tahr, Sir Ian Casper

June 1

To the King of Malam,

Rumors about the Channeler oil have spread after an occur- rence last week. Onlookers reported that Mr. Erik Bayles met a passing trader in the market square to purchase Sanguine. For unknown reasons, Mr. Bayles became angry and struck the trader, who then hit back, punching Mr. Bayles once and killing him. The trader left town before he was questioned. I’ve sent men after him.

Without answers, many blame Channeler magic. Either Sanguine gave the trader unnatural strength, or it caused Mr. Bayles’s death. Those who knew Mr. Bayles best have insisted he was a hard man to kill. I did not inquire how many times they tried.

The dispute has divided the town. Some businesses have refused service to anyone associated with Channelers. While I could force businesses to open their doors to all, I fear it will not end the division.

I must know, is Sanguine truly harmful? Please advise on how to restore order to my fief.

Your loyal man, Lord Xavier Variant

***

After I dress for dinner and Leif returns with Lord Segrande, I scan the letters I received over the last few months and compare them to the newest batch.

“Anything promising, Your Highness?” Segrande surveys the letters. His salt-and-sandy hair has taken a severe combing, unlike his untamed beard that twists and curls over the starched collar of his dinner coat. The mismatch suits Seg- rande, who is known for earning as many calluses as the people working the fields of his fief.

“More reports of division and opposition. Poverty in the ore fiefs. Destroyed property, disturbances in the market. More rumors that feed wariness of Channelers.” The chair scrapes the floor as I push back from the desk and pace away.

Our retinue spent two weeks traveling through Malam. Two weeks of passing through towns and farmlands and seeing firsthand the chasm between countrymen that should’ve been mended by the Purge’s abolishment.

Those two weeks confirmed that decrees don’t assuage distrust.

We are a gray, threadbare tapestry in desperate need of new threads to strengthen us. But my people have spent two decades fearing the very color we need now. Regardless of the abolished Purge, our factionalism leaves us weak.

Ignoring the powerlessness dragging through my veins, I stalk across the room, drop down on a bench, and fasten the buckles of my boots tighter.

I remind myself that this is why I’m here. The summit, the tournament, the jubilee — they will be the start of change for Malam.

“What of this one? Sir Casper mentioned Sanguine, the Channeler oil. That’s a pebble of good news.” Segrande leans over the desk. His dinner coat bulges around his buttons. “More people buying the oil means more people are trusting Channelers.”

“Look at Jonespur’s letter. Or Variant’s.” I stand and scrutinize my shirt for lint, finding none. “Two men have died, and rumors link them to Channelers and the oil. People believe the oil is dangerous.”

“Fools,” Leif grouses from where he sits on the hearth’s edge. “If they knew anything about Channelers, they’d know there’s no danger. They’re not going around killing anybody.” Segrande abandons the desk to wait at the door. “Some ideas are hard to bury. Those people have feared Channelers

all their lives. That rock won’t be turned over easily.”

It’s always rocks with Segrande. In this case, he’s greatly underestimated the size of the problem. The prejudices dividing Malam are mountains. I look out the window at the city of tents stretching across the land to the southeast where thou- sands of foreigners have come for the Tournament of Champi- ons and the jubilee.

“Has the Archtraitor reported anything?” Segrande asks. “Millner.” Leif mutters something more about unturned rocks.

“Slip of the tongue.” Segrande chuckles. “We’re the only three Malamians who refer to Millner by his given name. Most still consider him an enemy of Malam.”

Irritation hardens Leif’s face. I hadn’t realized he had an opinion about Millner. He said nothing weeks ago when I mentioned my choice to hire the man. But perhaps Leif’s insistence on respect is because he and Millner share a com- monality. Millner was once captain of the royal guard. Years ago, he protested the Purge. Because he was nobility, his defiance was considered traitorous. Guards burned his home, killing his wife. In retaliation, Millner ended those men’s lives and became a fugitive in Shaerdan. Over the years, rumors have twisted the story, marking him as Malam’s enemy — the Archtraitor.

But I know better than to put much weight in rumors. I’ve always admired Millner for standing up for what was right.

“He’s sent no word yet,” I admit, albeit reluctantly. I hoped his information would shed light on Sanguine and give me something positive to report to the Channelers Guild. It would be remiss of me to put off informing them. I tug on my dinner coat and turn to Segrande. “Draft a letter to Seeva. Explain the situation.”

A cough sputters out of him. “The entire situation? The men who died? The rumors?”

I understand his apprehension. As a member of both the Channelers Guild and my advisory circle, Seeva Soliel won’t be pleased to hear the rumors. And even less pleased to discover I waited to tell her. The Guild was reluctant to pledge their support to Malam, and though Seeva serves me, her loyalties still lie with Channelers first.

“Tell her everything,” I command as we exit the chambers. The guards escort us through the winding halls of the castle to the dining hall, where the other delegations are al- ready seated around a mammoth oval table. The chief judge of Shaerdan, the queen of the Plovian Isles, the king of Kolontia, and their dignitaries sit on the far side, while I take a place beside Ku Toa of Akaria and her dignitaries, with Leif and Segrande at my right. Our guards remain in the room, their five different types of armor matching the flags hanging behind them. The mesh of kingdom colors serves as a reminder that not so long ago, Malam was headed to war with Shaerdan.

And now Shaerdan is the hosting kingdom and Chief Judge Auberdeen is the summit officiant. He makes formal introductions and then speaks about the upcoming summit meeting schedule, the Kingdoms’ Market, the jubilee, and the tournament.

When the latter is mentioned, Leif shifts forward, eager and ready. The motion doesn’t escape notice. King Gorenza scowls at my captain, likely because Leif will be competing against his son.

“All competitors fighting in your name must be declared at the March of Champions tomorrow.” Auberdeen sets down a leather tome, thick with a hundred years of rules.

A murmured agreement rolls through the room, and then the meal is served.

The other leaders launch into a conversation, showing their familiarity with one another. Auberdeen boasts about a new ship design that will make it possible to double the size of a trade shipment.

“A ship that large will give you freedom to introduce new imports,” says an Akarian dignitary.

“True.” Auberdeen nods to the Plovian queen. “Like silks from the isles.”

“How fortunate for Malam that we’ve reestablished trade with Shaerdan.” Segrande thumps the table, drawing light laughter. “In fact, we’re already seeing the benefits.” He turns to me.

“Yes.” I lower my fork and seize the transition to discuss Sanguine. “I’ve heard word of a new import in our markets.”

“You’ve snared our attention, Young King Aodren. Tell us more.”

Young king? King Gorenza’s booming delivery in a brisk Kolontian accent doesn’t lighten the dig at my age. He sits languidly on the other side of the table, a head shorter than me, shoulders twice my width, nose like a hawk’s. He has one arm draped on the chair’s back and the other resting on the table. A casual domination of space.

“What item of trade, specifically, are you talking about?” he asks.

“Channeler oil,” Leif answers.

“Oil for Channelers?” Auberdeen’s confusion is mirrored by others around the table. He takes spectacles from his pocket and holds them beneath his unkempt eyebrow hedges. “Is that the new import?”

“Yes. No . . . I mean, no.” Leif’s face is the same color as the beets on his plate.

“Captain O’Floinn is referring to Sanguine,” I explain. “It’s said to be a Channeler-made healing remedy. Have you any experience with the oil?”

“Sounds familiar,” murmurs a Plovian dignitary.

“The oil comes from Akaria, no?” King Gorenza focuses on the Ku, who is sitting to my left. “What do you know of it?’ Ku Toa is older than me by four or five decades, small in stature, and has a shorn head — as is the custom for the southern kingdoms’ leaders. I turn to her, curious about her answer. But her dignitary, Olema, answers. “We have an oil in our land

called Sanguine.”

“Are they not the same, Fa Olema?” Gorenza props both arms on the table.

Olema is an ancient man, older than the Ku, with a face mapped in wrinkles. He exchanges a look with the Ku. “I cannot say.”

“It’s the most potent of all Channeler healing aids. Is it not?” asks Judge Soma, second in command to Auberdeen.

Everyone turns to the thin, lanky man.

“That so?” Gorenza stabs a roll with his knife.

Soma nods. “It’s similar to Beannach water, but more po- tent. Are you familiar with Beannach?”

Earlier this year, Judge Auberdeen sent Soma to Malam to draft a treaty between our kingdoms. Soma was earnest and well informed. His contradicting opinion on Sanguine confirms that the rumors were fueled by prejudices. I know I should be pleased that Sanguine isn’t hurting my people, but the hatred that must exist in my kingdom to start such a vicious rumor gnaws at me.

“Beannach means ‘blessed,’” says Leif, jumping in when he can. “It replenishes.”

A flicker of a smile twitches on the Ku’s face.

“I know what it does.” Gorenza shoves pieces of the im- paled roll into his mouth, chewing viciously before adding, “Even if we don’t use Channeler magic up north.”

“And yet,” says Soma, “at every summit, a Channeler from your kingdom performs in the jubilee.”

“We don’t use their magic, but they live among us.” Gorenza yanks his knife free. He swings the point to face me. “Kolontia hasn’t outlawed and hunted Channelers as Malam has.”

Lord Segrande develops rigor mortis. Queen Isadora’s fork clatters on the table.

“Now that the stone’s been thrown, we can move on,” I say, having anticipated this reaction from the other leaders. “After all, Malam has. There isn’t one of us whose kingdom has a spotless history. My people’s shame is merely more recent.”

Judge Auberdeen and Ku Toa’s eyes slant to me, assessing.

Gorenza scoffs. “Will we actually see Channelers repre- senting Malam at the jubilee this year?”

“Of course,” I say. They think Malam will have no repre- sentative in the Channeler show, like the last four summits. They’re wrong. The jubilee is one event in which I can rest easy. “Katallia of the Channelers Guild will wear Malam’s colors. I’m honored that she calls Malam home.”

Katallia became an ally when she fought alongside me to defeat Lord Jamis. When she performs in the name of Malam, she’ll inspire pride in all Malamians.

“I’m sure it would’ve been difficult to find another willing Channeler,” Gorenza says, oddly quiet. “How fortunate for you that Katallia’s life was spared during your kingdom’s extermination, which you did nothing to stop when you first came into power.”

The room goes silent.

If a rat scuttled across the floor, its steps would register louder than a drumroll.

The pommel of my sword digs into my hip. A call to arms against such an appalling insult to my honor. I drag a breath through my teeth, tempering the wave of intense loathing, and bridling the urge to cut Gorenza down.

The smallest movement catches in my periphery. A Malamian guard has edged forward. Gorenza stares at him, nostrils flared in a look of daring that says he’s primed to shed blood. Any guard in this room wouldn’t hesitate to kill a person for caustic remarks made against their leader, but because Gorenza is the king, my guard waits. As does everyone else, sitting with bated breath.

I’m not here to start a war. I’m here for Malam, I remind myself.

For allegiances. For unity. For my people’s future.

I flick out my hand, low to the side in a staying motion. Auberdeen bangs the table with his fist, though he keeps

an eye on me. “Enough talk of trade. King Gorenza, you have a grandchild on the way, do you not? Let me tell you about what my granddaughter said to me just this morning.”

The single lamp illuminating my chambers is not enough to give shape to the clothing chest or prevent me from slamming my shin into the corner. I hop back, cursing, and yank off my coat. My boots come off next. One tumbles beneath the desk. The other hits the curtain. For a half second, I swear it’s followed by an oomph. I pull the tunic over my head and let it drop, welcoming the cool evening air.

A shadow moves from behind the curtains. An intruder. Pulse ricocheting through my veins, I snatch the sword at

my hip.

The man grabs for something behind him. I lunge, thrusting the blade’s point at the intruder’s chest. He lets out a squawk. Hands hang at his sides, frozen.

“Don’t move or I’ll kill you.”

A blast of wind slams into me, knocking me to the ground. I manage to keep a hand on my blade. I jump to my feet, but the distraction has given the intruder the advantage.

“I’d apologize for using a wind gust to knock you down,” he — no, she says. A woman? A Channeler. Shock has me frozen in place. How did she get in here? “But you had a blade digging into my heart.”

She shakes out her hands and steps into the lamplight. Blue eyes rimmed with stripes of black lashes stare at me from under a boy’s cap. She looks like a scrawny stable boy. “You don’t recognize me?”

The scrawny-stable-boy disguise throws me off. But a memory emerges of her on the same battlefield as me. Last year, she came to Malam seeking her friend, and she ended up fighting beside me to stop the army of traitors from taking Malam.

When I don’t answer immediately, she huffs. “Figures.” And then she tugs off her hat, releasing a coil of raven hair. “It’s Lirra Barrett. I saved your life earlier this year.”

She mutters under her breath about me not remember- ing, and then adds something that sounds like “arrogant arse.”

Any shock still chilling my veins quickly heats with anger. Regardless of our past, how dare she be so brazen as to sneak into my room, use her Channeler magic on me, and then disrespect me?

“You’ve trespassed in my chamber. State your purpose.” My tone is terse and cold.

She blinks at me. Her mouth pinches like she’s tasted something bitter, and then she withdraws a letter from her pocket. “This is from my father.”

***

Uh-oh....when enemies from different kingdoms come together, either peace or war could be on the forefront. Want to find out how Lirra and Aodren will partner together to get to the bottom of what’s happening in Malam? Read ONCE A KING, which you can purchase from any of the links below.

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Books-A-Million

IndieBound

#hmhteen #hmh teen #erin summerill #once a king #ever the hunted #booklr #excerpt #excerpts

3 notes · View notes