A leggy, long-haired Alaric stands in the center of the same room, staring down at his hands, which are cupped around a walnut-sized gemstone the color of an apricot.
“It was an accident,” he whispers frantically. “I didn’t mean… I would never!” His hands tremble around the jewel, which is riddled with spiderweb cracks.
Besnik paces in front of Alaric, glancing nervously from the gemstone to the double doors. “It’s fine. The stone ismeantto be divided. That’s how Father received his portion, and Grandfather before him. It was going to be split again soon for me anyway.”
“It’s going to becarefully chiseledfor you.” Alaric’s voice cracks. “Not splintered like the stained-glass window we broke in the music room when I was four.”
“The Flesh isn’t going to shatter like that.” Besnik waves a dismissive hand, though his eyes dart back to the double doors. “We’ll sneak it back into the royal coffers and never speak of this again. No one needs to know you took it or that it fractured in your care. When Father eventually discovers the damage, he’ll think it must have split naturally. Maybe he’ll finally admit we’re excavating the mines too quickly andcarelessly. Far more than a single gemstone will crumble if we continue carving up the mountain without thought for its long-term stability.”
Alaric still looks pale and stricken, but he nods as he considers the damaged gemstone. “Do you think its power remains intact?”
“Of course,” Besnik says—a little too quickly. “And, anyway, the Flesh is only one third of the triad. The others will make up any difference.”
My ears snag on the wordsFleshandtriad, but I don’t have time to work out their importance. The council room doors fly open with abang, and King Soren strides into the room.
At the sight of his sons, he skids to a halt. His eyes fall on the apricot gemstone in Alaric’s hands, and his craggy face twists and reddens. A vein on his forehead bulges like a bloated leech. He levels a finger at Alaric, but he doesn’t bellow his accusation. He whispers, which is far more terrifying.
“It wasyou?”
“It-it isn’t what you think.” Alaric stumbles toward his father, his fear so visceral my own hands feel damp with sweat.
I can’t imagine being so frightened of my own family. Mother and Rowenna could be a bit ruthless and single-minded, and Father was often overly emotional and disappointed, but I never had cause to fear any of them. I never doubted, for even a second, that they would meet my mistakes with compassion rather than anger. With love rather than threats.
Poor Alaric is so focused on his garbled explanations and apologies, he trips over his ungainly legs and the gemstone bobbles in his grip. I hold my breath as he dives to catch it, but the jewel slides through his fingers and hits the ground with acrack. Daggers of tangerine light slash across the walls—flash across Soren’s livid face—as the pieces scatter and spin.
“What have you done?” King Soren roars as he lumbers across the room.
Alaric flops about like a fish on land, frantically trying to gather theshards into a pile.
Soren thunders closer. “You know the sacrifices my grandfather made!”
Besnik darts between them, holding up his hands. “Father, have mercy. This is a misunderstanding—”
Soren flings his oldest son aside and looms over Alaric. “The Flesh of Callahan goes missing—no, is stolen from the royal coffers—and I find it in the possession of my own son? Irreversibly damaged!”
“Father, I can explain.” Alaric scrambles back, wincing as fragments of the stone dig into his palms.
“There’s no good explanation for stupidity.” Soren bellows and raises a hand.
The room begins to shake, infinitesimally at first, like hundreds of dancers in a hall. Then it builds to a rush of galloping hooves and, finally, to earth-wrenching tremors, like the quakes that shook the fields of Tashir the day Soren raised our protective mountain range. Quills and inkpots rattle and the bookshelves lining the council room walls spit their massive tomes to the floor.
Alaric yelps with each heavythwack.
“Father, stop!” Besnik pleads. “The structural integrity of the palace—”
“You disrespect our ancestors!” Soren booms over his sons. “You spit upon our most sacred relics—the very source of our power. Poweryouhave no right to wield as a second son.” He stabs a quivering finger at Alaric.
“It isn’t like that,” Alaric wails. “I wasn’t trying to take it. I just wanted to look at the stones and feel close to the power, just once, before it’s rightfully given to Besnik.”
Soren’s laughter is loud and merciless. “If you’re so desperate to feelcloseto my power, I’ll happily oblige.”
He thrusts both hands toward Alaric, but Besnik moves at the same time, crashing into Alaric’s side and sending the younger boy sprawling into the ladder they rode as children. The floor crumbles at the samemoment, directly beneath where Alaric stood.
Where Besnik stands now.
Each second plays out in slow, excruciating detail. Splinters of wood explode into the air, Besnik’s arms pinwheel, and his feet churn as if running. For an impossible moment, he seems to hang there, suspended like a bird, before the laws of nature reclaim him.
I scream as he plummets, and Delphine slaps her palm over my lips. We watch in silent horror as the tail of Besnik’s velvet jacket catches on one of the jutting, broken floorboards. Unfortunately, it isn’t strong enough to stop his fall—only to change his trajectory. The snagged garment pitches Besnik heels overhead, flinging him down, down, down into whatever lies below.
