“It is written,” he says. “There are prophecies—”
Cutting him off with a sweep of my hand, I shake my head. “I don’t believe in divination or astrological premonitions and neither should you.”
“Promise me you won’t go.” Wild-eyed, he leans forward. “You must find a way to decline. The queen will crush—”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say firmly, taking a deep breath and schooling my expression to blankness. “I swear I am the last woman the prince will choose. Please, don’t worry about me.” I push a full flagon of wine toward him, hoping to silence him. “This one is free of charge.”
Yanking my hand back, I make a swift, frantic escape to the other end of the counter, my heartbeat returning to normal only after Cyrill drains the pitcher with an uneasy glance in my direction and leaves without further incident. I exhale a ragged sigh of relief.
I’ve heard enough chatter in the inn to know that not many agree with the monarchy’s policies, so it’s no surprise that Cyrill views this engagement celebration with such suspicion. And there are rumorsthat the prince is corrupt, true, but I’ve never heard any whisper of him being anarcanist. And there’s no such thing as death magic. Or any magic, beyond the well-guarded pockets of jadu. If one believed the stories, centuries ago, the Royal Stars were worshipped and akasha, the infinite ether of the universe, flowed freely through the realms in iridescent rivers and magic was abundant. But when the old gods and the Royal Stars were scorned by the first King of Oryndhr, akasha began to wane and eventually withered.
The accusations are ludicrous.
I try to shrug off the ominous weight that has settled on my shoulders. Cyrill’s ramblings are nonsense, but the suffocating feeling loiters, along with a sour taste I can’t get out of my mouth.
There are fewer customers now; I decide perhaps a short walk will help to clear my addled brain and queasy stomach.
I slip unnoticed through the back door of the kitchen and frown up at the suddenly overcast sky. It doesn’t rain much here, less than ten inches a year, but when it does, the skies can look angry. Blotting out the sun, the low-hanging clouds are an ominous gray.
I’m not paying attention to my steps, blinking against the sudden, sharp pain in my temples, so I don’t see the hunched crone blocking my path at the top of the narrow backstreet until we are nearly nose to nose. Murmuring my apologies, I move to skirt past her—but a wizened arm shoots out to grab my wrist.
“Setareh sar lokkar,” she whispers.
“Excuse me?” I ask her, a chill creeping across my skin. I look over my shoulder, but the alley is empty save for us. A crackle of raw energy leaps from her fingers to my skin, and I yelp, trying to jerk my arm away. But she holds fast, her grip surprisingly strong. “Who are you? Let me go!”
She looks up with eyes the color of a twinkling twilight sky, and a sudden calm descends over me. The crone turns my wrist over in a swift movement to trace the lines on my palm with a fingernail,those brilliant starlit eyes tracking its path. I know all the lines she touches—heart, head, life, and fate—the diviners of destiny. The very things I just disparaged moments ago to Cyrill.
I fight the urge to curl my fingers into a fist to protect my palm from this woman’s penetrating gaze. I might not believe in divination—at least not anymore—but that doesn’t mean I want her to pore through my personal fate. “What are you doing? Let go!”
But she ignores me, her hold unyielding. Her fingers pulse against my skin, outlining a shape across the center of my palm between the crisscrossed lines, and an odd sensation blooms in their wake. I blink rapidly as a silvery glow seems to illuminate the path of her fingertip.
What the actualfuck?
I must be seeing things, but there, on my palm, is a glimmering five-pointed shape that also looks faintly like an M.
Chiromancy isn’t unfamiliar to me. My mother used to say that our palms are the maps to our souls. When I was little, she would kiss and read my palms before bed, tracing my lines and making predictions about my future... how I would love, live, or learn. But those were games meant to charm a child.
“Setareh sar lokkar, servant of the star.” Her eyes return to my face, which she studies with frightening intensity. “Not yet awakened, it slumbers sound. The fates will wait until they are called.”
Her low, singsong voice sounds like an imitation of the over-the-top soothsayers who come to the summer market fairs. “You speak in riddles, old woman,” I scoff. But my heart is pounding.
“Where it walks, death follows.”
As quickly as she had restrained me, she releases my hand and shuffles off into the pronounced gloom of the adjacent alley, vanishing between the buildings. I take a step after her, but I can no longer see her; it’s like the dark devoured her. I stare at my palm—no longer glowing, thank the sands—and curl it closed.
My heart is pounding, fear crashing through my veins, and I fight the urge to flee like a frightened rabbit toward the safety of the inn. I’m not superstitious, and I should know better than to let the prophecies of a foolish old fortune teller get to me. But after Cyrill’s cryptic words in the bar, along with Amma’s and Papa’s cagey behavior, I feel that something terrible is about to happen.
Lightning forks over the darkened sky, making me jump, and the flash of light erases my ability to see for a second. The shadows seem to press upon me from all sides, the darkness stretching and yawning like a sentient beast. I am nothing but an insignificant speck in its realm. I am at its mercy. A rash of goose bumps prickle my skin.
I’m not afraid of the dark.
The multilayered whisper that comes back is ghostly and echoes from everywhere at once:You should be.
Chapter Three
God of Night
By the blood,I shouldn’t have spoken.
