My dread had spiked, wondering if he was after a confession. “No. That’s against the law.”
“Not if you have a permit from the king, which I do.” Vasha had pocketed one of the fragments with my symbols, his expression unreadable. “Come visit me next week in Jaxx and let’s see what you can do.”
It had been an order, not a request, especially considering he’d taken a piece of steel as leverage. But as it turns out, the jadu shards sing to me in a singular way that’d had old Vasha salivating, and ever since, his forge has farmed out extra work to me. However, he’s not stupid. The crystals are carefully weighed, and the messengers he sends measure every ounce when they leave.
Good thing I paid for the meager piece I’m using, even if I am under no illusions that that trader might have stolen it to begin with. Sliding on a pair of protective goggles, I place the cooled dagger carefully into the forge to start the slow reheating process. Forging takespatience and care, and I don’t want to ruin my hard work by not paying attention at this stage. But my gaze keeps returning to the lump of balled parchment a few feet away.
A tight, secret longing rises in my chest. I’d give anything to visit the capital city. My eyes flick to the painted landscape mounted on the far wall of the workshop. Set against a lush purple-and-green backdrop, the Kaldarian palace shimmers like a gleaming pearl at the center of the far-reaching citadel, its scalloped turrets glistening. The image never fails to steal my breath away.
When Mama was alive, we used to imagine fantastical adventures inside the palace walls. One day, we’d both be ladies-in-waiting, and the next, fierce palace guards defending the lives of its occupants to our last breaths. Other times, we’d bring in mythical creatures, like magical simurghs to fight with us against the forces of darkness. I let out a soft snort; she used to call me her little firebird. Her imagination had always been better than mine.
Even on her deathbed, she’d called me that.
“Come on, little firebird,” she’d wheezed. “I don’t lookthatbad.”
She’d looked worse than bad—gaunt and sallow as if something cursed was feeding off her very soul, a wasting illness we’d never seen the likes of. In a matter of months, she’d entirely diminished. “You’re beautiful, Mama,” I’d said brightly, sitting beside her and taking care not to jostle her too much. It might have been childish, but I’d wanted to hold on to her in any way I could. “What shall we pretend to be today? Spies? Princesses?”
But her expression had gone vacant. “There’s a room in the southernmost turret, and you can see for miles through its window. Even the entire hedge maze.” I’d gaped at her, but she’d looked past me, to someplace I couldn’t reach. “My friend Nihira lived there. She was an artist, too. That painting was a gift from her...” Her words had trailed away as exhaustion took root, and after that, she’d deteriorated much too quickly for stories.
To this day, I can’t look at the painting—or that turret and the green maze—without thinking of her, without wanting to see the world through her eyes just once. I’m nearly twenty-five and I’ve never even been to the realm’s capital city. Never beenanywhere.
I stare past the tiny window to the sun-scorched desert beyond the village spreading for endless miles. It’s one of the poorest areas of the kingdom, nothing like Kaldari, but Coban has beauty, too. Right now, the morning sun stretches high over the horizon, spearing its brilliant golden fingers across the sands in a way that’s familiar and new all at once. The light is never the same. One day, it turns the desert molten silver, and the next, it’s undulating in tones of firestorm red. I smile—the desert and Coban will always be my home, no matter my secret wishes to disappear into that Kaldarian painting.
“Dreaming about the day you become a princess of Oryndhr again?” Laleh’s laughing voice makes me whip around, a flush creeping into my cheeks as she pulls the forge door shut against a gust of dry air. “Why is it hot as balls in here? Worse than the pits of Droon, I swear.”
I roll my eyes at my oldest friend. It’s sweltering, but nowhere can be as hot as Droon. The abandoned city is made up mostly of molten lava, thanks to a very active volcano. “I’m working on getting this dagger done.”
“How’s that going?” she asks, floating into the workshop on the cloud of her jewel-green skirts.
“I finished the pommel—a simurgh in honor of Mama. It’s over there on the bench.” I watch as she examines the carved hilt, the head of the simurgh curving at the end and the wings making up the two decorative quillons.
“It’s beautiful,” Laleh says. “She would have loved it.”
My heart squeezes. “Thank you. Nice outfit, by the way.”
“Green is definitely my color.” She twirls for my inspection. Emerald silk attached to twin gold armbands floats around her, complementing her cropped black hair that has been brazenly combed intodyed green points. Laleh’s various quirky looks have evolved over the years, but they never get dull. I love that about her.
“Every color is your color,” I say over my shoulder. “Also, I’d much prefer to be a spy than a princess.”
She lifts a brow. “You say that as though a princess can’t be a badass. Nothing wrong with being beautiful, powerful,andcapable. You could be a princess spy.”
I carefully adjust the now orange-hued blade in the kiln to make sure it heats evenly. I trust Laleh with my life; she’s the only one who knows about my unlawful jadu purchase, so no need to hide what I’m doing. “I don’t know. All the royals in Kaldari seem to be indolent, spoiled, and selfish. Upheaval is on their doorstep, their people are starving from the Dahaka blockades, and what do they do? Have parties. I wouldn’t be a Kaldarian princess if you paid me.”
“Tell me how you really feel.” She wrinkles her nose with a grimace. “Why are you so obsessed with the Dahaka anyway? It’s not as though those rebels are going to touch ushere. Leave the politics to the aldermen and the ruling houses, I say.”
“The houses are divided and their bickering won’t save us,” I explain, frowning at her casual dismissal of the Dahaka, the brutal rebel militia that has grown more powerful—and more violent—in recent years. While I have no love for the crown, the rebels and their bloodshed don’t seem like an alternative to embrace. And everyone knows that with no leadership at all, the only people who will suffer are the least powerful. Namely us. “Some say that House Regulus and House Antares secretly support what the Dahaka are doing.”
Laleh waves a manicured hand. “What’s new? The houses never agree on anything.”
She’s not wrong, but the tension feels different this time. It’s volatile.
Most of the locals in Coban pay tithes to the House of Aldebaran. Though the largest, it’s the poorest house by far, made up of farmers, builders, craftsmen, and traders.
My Elonian-born mother had been part of the House of Fomalhaut, the creators, the philosophers, and the artists. Fomalhaut is also notorious for harboring arcanists and heretics, though most of those have been weeded out by the Imperial House in recent decades.
Papa had been part of the House of Regulus, the richest of the houses, comprising innovators, inventors, and thinkers—until he’d renounced all ties, saying they were too insular. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly. Most who don’t align with a house are outliers and criminals—or worse, they are Scavs, the dangerous nomadic outlaws who call the Dustlands home.
Rumors abound that the leader of the Dahaka is from the House of Antares. That wouldn’t surprise me one bit—they’re obsessed with war and strength.
