And eventually, it became the catalyst for a war that was long overdue. The Selaran crown, then wielded by King Ronan’s father Aurelian IV, had long been taking more from Nithyria than it provided. When my grandmother died and my father became the Head of House Verran, Aurelian demanded so much ash that our people could no longer tend their own fields. The fire-born were forced to start massive blazes in the mountains; the water- and wind-born were forced to keep the flames from spreading; and the nature- and earth-born were forced to haul the ash down from the mountains all the way into Selara. Only the shadow-born were left to work the fields, and soon our people were starving.
The Orsa, a savage people who’d raided our lands for generations, took advantage of our weakness and plundered our half-abandoned farms and villages, killing thousands. My father traveled to court a dozen times, begging the king to show mercy. But the king refused. If our people could not deliver what he asked for, he could just get the Orsa to do so instead. In return, he’d give them our lands.
For a fire-born, my father had been exceptionally patient, but there was only one reasonable response to that insult: war. Five years later, when both my parents and King Aurelian were dead, Adria surrendered to the newly crowned King Ronan, and everything King Aurelian promised had come to pass.
We were forced from our ancestral home, Pyka, and the Orsa were gifted it by the crown as thanks for their support in the war.The Machair Plains were lost, and with them, our only ability to feed our people. King Ronan promised to keep us fed as long as we kept the ash flowing into Selara, and for a time, he kept his word.
But shipments started arriving late. And when they finally did arrive, they were often spoiled. The flood was weak, they said. There were problems with pests from Brakkar. But the people of Selara weren’t asked to go without. They imported food with the gold they made by razing our forests while they let us go hungry. And every year, they demanded more and more from us.
And that’s why Ronan has to die. It isn’t just vengeance for our parents. It’s for the lives of our people. It’s for the lives of all of the people of Selara and Nithyria. Our two kingdoms will remain united, only this time under our rule.
Our spies report division in the capital. Many people are unhappy, not just with the failed harvest but with a number of changes Ronan has made. If Ronan himself were to fall, they say, all the pieces would fall with him.
And apparently, I’m going to be the one to bring him down.
“I won’t fail. When it’s time, I won’t hesitate. I know who he is. I know what he’s done.
“And I know he’ll pay for it with his life.”
Chapter Four
In the morning, we board the ferry down the River Mara to the capital. It’s cool outside this long before dawn. Adria and the others have gone below, but I don’t want to miss anything, so I stand alone near the bow, taking it all in.
The landscape shifts from marsh to rocky canyon and back again as the Mara meanders on. The river is slow, but our boat makes great time with a wind-born at the sails. We’ll be in Faros this very afternoon.
Shortly after the sun rises, I’m joined on the deck by Typhon. As he exits the stairs into the morning air, he breathes in a deep, languorous breath and then sighs an exhale of utter contentment. His Selaran silks billow in the breeze, the thin white of the fabric spreading out behind him like a cape.
It's surprising to see him so at peace. The Typhon I’ve come to know is an anxious mess, always wringing his hands and pacing back and forth, rubbing his bald head as if the hair might return if he does it hard enough. We’ve resented his presence ever since he arrived at the end of the war, knowing that he reports our every move to his father, Lord Cyrus, King Ronan’s Grand Vizier. I had never stopped to consider that he was as unhappy in his post as we were having him there.
“You’ll be able to see the Dalven temple of Kerensa soon,” he says as he joins me, pointing to where the ribbon of the Mara disappears into the horizon. “The temple in Faros is larger, but I think Dalven’s is the most beautiful.”
“Kerensa does admire beauty,” I say. It’s a dumb response. Of course the Goddess of Beauty admires beauty.Gods. But I don’t know what else to say, having never been to any temple other than those in Pyka, our old home, and Kalla, our new one.
Typhon is in too good of a mood to care about anything I say anyway. He’s happy to have someone to talk to about the sights of his homeland, and for once, I’m happy to listen. I’ve read about many of the places he points out: the ruins of the Hellenian Palace, lost in an invasion more than two hundred years earlier and never rebuilt; the Gardens of Luminaris, where rare alchemical ingredients are grown by an order of water-born; the Mausoleum of God-Queen Julia, the monarch who reunited Selara and Nithyria after our first civil war. But to see them with my own eyes, to watch the world come alive as it wakes, a world so alike and yet so different from mine, it’s fascinating.
It's midday by the time Faros comes into view. From a distance, the city rises in the river’s haze like a giant sandcastle sculpted by ancient hands. Warm mudbrick and sandstone structures give the illusion of neat little stairs and whimsical turrets as the city tumbles down from the palace, which rises high on a cliff overlooking the sea. The others have gathered on deck now, but no one else is listening to Typhon as he describes the neighborhoods and quarters of the city.
I take in every word.
“That’s the Ivory Spire, home of the Great Library of Faros. It’s home to every book in every language in the entire world. I’m telling you, every single book. Oh, and over there, the Palace District. On market days, you can find a trader from everycountry in the world. There are a dozen markets all over the city, but the best is right there, just steps from the palace. If you go—and youmust—try to find a man with a red canopy. He sells the most delicious pastry you’ve ever had in your life. It’s layered with walnuts and pistachios and soaked in honey. Heavenly.”
“Is that the Alchemists’ Guild?” I ask, pointing to a pair of white towers that frame a building with a golden dome.
“Yes,” says Typhon, looking uneasy. “A lot goes on there. Very secret, as you know.”
Oh, believe me, I know. We all know.
“May I borrow Sylvie for a moment?” asks Larus. He’s been watching us from across the deck, but I suspect he joins us now so I don’t speak my mind about the Guild, getting us all in trouble before we’ve even arrived.
Larus, who yesterday wore his usual mixture of loose Enezian clothing and brown leather Nithyrian armor, has opted for a full Nithyrian look for today’s introduction to the palace. He’s also tamed his locks into a thick ponytail at the base of his neck, a style sometimes worn by nobility.
He looks me up and down: I’m wearing the same armor as yesterday, with the same style tunic underneath, only in blue rather than green. He shakes his head.
“Maybe something a bit softer,” he says. “What you wear sends a message. They expect to see a fighter in Adria. Perhaps you’d rather send adifferentmessage.”
I would love to get rid of this ill-fitting leather, if only because of the heat it traps to my skin. I’m dying under the southern sun. But I don’t have many better options. With our people going hungry, we haven’t had the luxury of having fine clothes made for us. All I’ve packed are the utilitarian garments sewn by my chambermaids and a few of my mother’s dresses they altered to fit me. They’re at least twenty years out of fashion.
“I think the only message I can send with what I brought is, ‘I need new clothes.’”
