Mareleau wasn’t certain the princess would feel the same. Their first and only encounter had been rife with tension. Now that everything with Larylis was settled, she could admit she’d been perhaps a little brusque with Aveline. She’d all but accused her of trying to steal the man she loved. When she looked at the situation objectively, it was clear Aveline had no ulterior motive and was simply agreeing to terms that had been delivered to her. It had been desperation, not desire, that had driven the princess to agree to a marriage with Larylis.
Mareleau was a jealous creature, but she could try to forgive the princess for having posed a short-lived threat to her happiness. Couldn’t she? She’d at least have to pretend.
Breah’s words took on a conspiratorial tone. “I heard she’s been living in the forest this entire time. Raised by wolves if you can believe it.”
Ulrich released a disapproving grunt and opened his broadsheets. The messenger had delivered the paper alongside the letter bearing word of Lurel’s demise. His voice came from behind the front page. “She was raised by a group of covert operatives tasked with keeping the princess safely hidden from the traitorous duke.”
Mareleau couldn’t help but note his rehearsed-sounding tone. She wasn’t privy to all the details of the battle with Duke Morkai, the truth of King Dimetreus’ captivity, or the secrets of Princess Aveline’s faked death, but every rumor she’d heard involved dark magic shrouded in secrecy, all of which her uncle constantly refuted. It would have been a comfort to hear such claims dismissed had Mareleau not known Ulrich’s very duty was to create official statements for public consumption. In other words, everything he’d just said to her could have been a lie.
“Act kindly to Her Highness,” Ulrich said, “but do not let your guard down. Remember that your job is not to be her friend but her confidante.”
She sniffed, not bothering to respond. If anyone understood her duty, it was she. Mareleau knew she was a spy and nothing more, entrusted with a task that would earn her father’s trust. Or whatever was left of it.
Under no circumstances did she intend to make friends.
17
For the third time that day, Cora strolled past the stairwell to the North Tower Library. Just like the first two times—and every time she’d come here the last two days—a sentry patrolled the entrance. The guard noticed her approach and offered a stiff bow. She nodded in reply before gritting her jaw and scurrying past. Once she was around the next corner, she paused and slumped against the wall. Damn. She’d hoped she could sneak back into the tower library, but she’d had no such luck.
She supposed she should feel grateful for the guards, if only for the fact that it meant Lord Kevan understood the threat the tower posed. But stationing sentries in the stairwell day and night was not a sustainable solution. Sooner or later, one of the guards would get lax. Leave their post. Someone would get too curious. Too brave. Or perhaps too skeptical. Whatever the case, so long as the tower remained as it was, someone could get hurt. Or worse.
Cora hadn’t let herself look around much when she’d come the morning after Lurel’s death. It wouldn’t have been safe. Not until she had the items she needed for a clearing ritual. Earth for grounding. Water for cleansing. Fire for transmutation. Air for dissipation. By the time she’d pilfered a few items from the kitchen, the guards had taken their posts. Cora had lost her chance to do her work unseen.
She glanced around the corner toward the stairwell and spotted the sentry’s armored shoulder peeking from the archway. Opening her senses, she caught strains of boredom mingling with discomfort. She wondered if there was anything she could do to inflate the latter emotion and trick him into leaving his post. But what good would that do? Cora needed ample time to do what she needed in the tower. It would take days. Weeks. Months perhaps.
It left her only one option; she’d have to propose her plan to Lord Kevan.
She grimaced at the thought. After their argument in the stairwell two mornings ago, she’d done her best to avoid him. Maybe he was avoiding her too. Still, until she and Dimetreus established firm trust with their new allies, the castle was essentially under Lord Kevan’s command. The guards listened to his orders. Followed his rules.
“Mother Goddess,” she cursed under her breath, leaning her head against the wall behind her. If only she could repeat the strange feat she’d accomplished at Centerpointe Rock. Then she could cross the distance from here to the tower room with no one else being the wiser. That is, if she’d truly done what it had felt like she’d done. Despite her growing doubt over the singular incident, she’d attempted to replicate her feat of spontaneous transportation a few times. She’d tried to will herself to the other side of her bedroom. To the forest. To…anywhere. But it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t determine what was missing.
In the past, her magic had grown each time she’d overcome a personal challenge regarding the Arts. It was a concept the Forest People were well acquainted with. When a witch would overcome a point of resistance along their path with the Arts, their magic and abilities would grow. Cora had experienced this a few times now, and it had always come from doing what had felt the most difficult in any given moment. So far, her challenge had always been to tune in to her Art. To get out of her head and trust her magic. To release her skepticism and believe she was capable of doing more than she dared dream of. Lately, though, the most difficult thing she’d had to do was publicly reject her relationship with magic. It would have been so much easier to run away. To flee to the woods and let her brother sort out his own problems. Didn’t that mean she was doing the right thing?
If so, her magic should be growing now. Instead, she felt like it was being smothered by a heavy weight in her chest. Sure, the base functioning of her clairsentient magic remained. She could open her senses, feel others’ emotions, and raise or drop her mental shields, but those were all things that had become inherent to her. She tried to remember what it was like to be the witch who had rendered her and Teryn invisible. Who had manipulated matter and opened a locked door. The witch who had crossed a distance in the blink of an eye and killed a sorcerer. She simply…couldn’t.
It reminded her of when her magic had become muted after getting captured by Morkai. Her anger over Teryn’s betrayal had smothered her connection to her Art. If that was happening again, why? Was it guilt over leaving the Forest People? Anger over having to pretend to be someone she wasn’t?
All she knew was that she’d felt somewhat like herself again when she’d faced Morkai’s deadly book and vowed to destroy all that was left of him. If she could perform a clearing ritual in the tower, she could connect to her magical side. To the witch she couldn’t be until her duty as a princess had been served.
“Your Highness, there you are.”
Cora startled at Master Arther’s voice. The steward came marching toward her, shoulders tense. She pushed away from the wall and took on a more regal bearing. “Greetings, Master Arther. I was just?—”
“They’re here, Highness,” he said, wringing his gloved hands. “The queen’s entourage. You must greet her and Lord Ulrich at once. His Majesty and Lord Kevan are already in the courtyard.”
Cora paled, her throat going dry. She’d been so focused on trying to get back into the tower that she’d forgotten the upcoming arrival of Queen Mareleau. The last thing she wanted to do was greet the prickly woman. “You’ll have to send her my sincere apologies. I’m not feeling well?—”
“The council meeting will commence as soon as Lord Ulrich exits his coach. You cannot leave the queen to such a cold welcome.”
Cora bit off all further argument. Queen Mareleau could have the iciest welcome for all she cared, but her brother’s first council meeting wasn’t something she intended to miss.
“Very well,” she said, “I shall greet Her Majesty.”
Relief smoothed the furrows in Master Arther’s brow, but it was short-lived. His eyes swept over her ensemble. “Are you going to greet her in that, Highness?”
Cora glanced down at the green wool riding habit she wore. It was one of her simplest outfits, and the easiest to don without assistance. Master Arther seemed to realize exactly that and took a sharp inhale. “Highness! Oh, dear. You must forgive me for neglecting my duties. I…I never…”
She knew what he was struggling to say. In the aftermath of Lurel’s demise, she hadn’t been appointed a new maid. Servants had come to call on her, but she preferred tending to herself. She wasn’t about to bring any attention to the quiet solitude she’d been granted the last couple of days.
