Around us, the crowd continued in their mirth, oblivious to the subtle tension between us. I held Cyan’s eyes, unwavering.
“A note, sir.” A familiar voice tensed my jaw as one of the castle’s messengers—one of Astraea’s boys—stood before us and met my gaze, offering me the letter.
Cyan huffed through his nose and intercepted, taking the scroll roughly from the boy. The child remained unfazed under Cyan’s gruffness. Never did the Queen’s messengers flinch or waver from a task, even the more unpleasant or dangerous ones. It was a loyalty formed from dependency and unfaltering dedication. From love, even. Without the Queen’s refuge, the boy would be long dead, killed in an alley, his loss quickly forgotten.
Cyan broke the tie and opened the scroll, shaking his head once as he read, venom lacing his words. “You’ve been summoned, Bastard.” He held the note out.
Suppressing a sigh, I took his offering. “By whom?”
“The Queen.”
The familiar sickening dread of inevitability slicked over me, and though I hardened my jaw to veil my reaction to the letter, the sneer that spread across Cyan’s face spoke to my momentary lapse of composure. Grinding my back teeth, I cast my eyes to the messenger and nodded. “Take me to her.”
6
EVERA
Numb disconnect separatedme from the crowd as I walked, keeping my head down. With each step, I watched my boots land, first heel then toe, knowing there should be a sound connected to the motion. That if I were alone, the stone road would echo my pathing.
Stopping, uncaring that I stood in the way of others as they parted and passed in both directions, I released a breath. I shivered, suddenly aware of the cold. It was a bone-aching frigidness, one that went beyond the chill of an early spring night.
One of the shapes moving through the street brushed against my shoulder, and I mumbled incoherent apologies, my voice meek as I stepped to the side.
The touch of daylight was long vanquished. My feet were sore from walking, my mouth dry and parched. The colorful dresses of ladies of the higher class appeared muddier in the dark; they blended in with the simple earth tones of the commoners’ skirts. A blurred division.
A bitter taste tainted the back of my throat. Vile, teeth-clenching anger consumed me in a wave of heat; it left just as quickly when the breeze blew, ruffling my skirts and remindingme of the cold. Tears threatened, but this time I held them back. I was every bit the healer Aureus was—less seasoned, perhaps, but no less gifted. In tinctures and the lore of healing plants, I even surpassed him. My fingers curled, restless, and I struck out at a loose stone; it leapt across the cobbles before surrendering to stillness. A sigh escaped me, heavy and hollow. To drown in my own misery, I felt selfish when others—the alidian girl, the homeless—suffered cruelties far greater than mine. Yet guilt flooded me all the same, a tide of injustice and selfishness colliding in my chest until I could scarcely breathe.
To feel bad for myself, even as I stood before a mental cliff, left me feeling vain. Stepping back from that edge meant returning to my brother, returning to the life he had set out for me, and taking it in stride. It was the correct thing to do. A young couple passed me, the woman holding to the man’s arm and giggling shyly, and my gaze lingered on them.
Glancing back over my shoulder to where the road led downhill, winding with shops crammed in close together along each side, I released a shuddering breath. Aureus was right. About everything. What I wanted—to heal others, to offer a more substantial contribution than my womb to this life—wasn’t a dream within reach. To accept that, to comply, would make the lives of those I loved so much easier.
Married and living with Ruairc, any rumors of me being a witch would fall away like the crumbling clay from the cliffs of Elrune. My soul would collide against the rough stone in its descent, breaking down until the last clumps that remained were devoured entirely by the murky sea.
Applause drew my attention back up the hill where light spilled from the stone archway that led into the castle’s outer courtyards. Two gatehouses, one on either side, stood as sentries. Yet, on this night, when the two moons shone fulloverhead and people came together to celebrate Ayrenven, the harsh divides of society were hazed.
Obscurity.
My hand went to the shape of the mask beneath the flowing fabric of my skirts, and I withdrew it from my pocket. Turning it over, I traced my index finger along the silver filigree outlining the eye slits. My exhale fogged the air, and when I raised my gaze to the archway once more and the courtyards within, a flutter filled my chest.
For one night, I could be anyone. Or it could be no one. Could drink expensive liquor, dance with a stranger, lose myself to pleasure, and the rush of being alive. I could take control of my life while the moons shone overhead. Cast aside Aureus’s relentless rules and the weight of all that lay ahead.
Fueled with the thrumming rush of excitement, with the draw of the unknown and new, I raised the mask to my face. It was cold over the bridge of my nose. Looking through, I blinked, and my lashes fluttered against the rim of the eye slits. I tied the silk ribbon behind my head to secure the mask and stepped toward the castle and the allure of a night of anonymity.
The hum of voices rose as I drew nearer and, passing into the courtyard, I was forced to stay still momentarily and catch my breath.
The flooring was marbled with swirls of ebony, white, and gray, with pearlescent flecks that caught the light and sparkled. To my right, a bard performed atop a platform stage, drawing the cheers and laughter of onlookers. Most were unmasked, but a handful bore festival coverings similar to my own.
Girls danced, twirling about carelessly. A few couples swayed, their dance slower, closer, more purposeful—the brush of cheeks, the trailing touch at a woman’s waist. My heart leapt, and I closed my eyes, remembering the feel of a man’s breath on my neck. It had been some time ago. Too long.
Beyond the dancers and the stage, an open hall of arches ran parallel to an overhead balcony. A creeping ivy of sorts, speckled with little white flowers, grew into the stone. I recognized the flower as one that clung to the manor house I had played in as a child. I used to tuck them into my hair.
Wistfulness drew me forward, and I skirted the busier areas until I stood near the edge of the courtyard before the row of arches. Humming thoughtfully, I plucked one of the flowers and brought it to my nose, breathing in the sweet, nostalgic scent.
Through the arches came a boy of perhaps eight or nine, leading a man in guard’s livery. The child’s seriousness was striking, so unlike the carefree children of Elrune. His hair was dark as midnight, and his long, curled lashes caught the light like spun silk. He halted before the wide double doors and spun on his heels with a precision that seemed rehearsed, addressing the guard at his back.
They exchanged words, but I was too far to hear. The guard, who kept his back to me, had hair so translucent it appeared almost white in the sconce light, long and braided in sections along one side. Perhaps older for the coloring of his hair, he stood straight and tall with the confidence and stature of a younger man.
The guard, his rigid, stark-black uniform contrasting with the light, flowing layers of the festival visitors, disappeared into the room. Curiosity tingled throughout my body, and when a group of three women entered after the man, I sucked in a breath and adjusted my mask.
