It’s the Republic’s favorite tradition. I intend to snuff it.
Luc barely has the stomach to deliver harsh words to sweet strangers, let alone the cruel streak necessary to win a Tournament of Thrones. If my brother is to reign again—and he will—then he must run unopposed.
“You ready?” I ask Sef, voice muffled beneath my mask.
“Always.” She tips up her chin and glides from the sledge as though skating on ice. She reaches the front door of Nox’s manor and raps on the dark wood. Like most Virdeian manors, Nox’s house is large, not tall. Mount Saidu is pelted with unforgiving winds and heavy snow most of the year, so there aren’t many tall structures. Most manors have one or two aboveground stories of tshira and mortar, and the bulk of the house is carved into the mountain.
Sef slips the envelope under the door and turns back, making her way across the stone-lined walkway to the sledge.
She’s halfway back when someone cries out.
I straighten to attention. A servant races out from the side of Nox’s house, headed for Sef.
The man calls out again. Sef runs faster, but she’s not quick enough. Her pursuer’s legs are longer and not tangled up in a skirt.
My heartbeat quickens. Time to show off my magic.
If you believe Virdeian legend (I don’t), magic was gifted to us hundreds of years ago by a lonely god. He sprinkled it like sugar into the streams that flow through the mountains, infecting the people who drink it and the tshira deposits throughout the mountain with its power.
Even magic has limits. The few of us with magic, the aikkari, need a source to fuel it. An aikkari’s source can be anything. Something tangible, like the red-brown sagegrass that grows in patches on the mountainside; something intangible, like a particular shade of yellow; or something invisible, like an emotion.
We’re taught from an early age:magic must be fed. Mine feeds on lies.
Alongside the aikkari are the isha (another gift from the alleged lonely god). With a single touch, they can sense anaikkari’s source. They’re useful, but rare. There hasn’t been an isha reported in Virdei for decades.
I yank open the coach door for Sef, before hauling myself onto the bench behind the greyhorns. They huff and stomp their legs faster, eager to get moving and return to the warmth of their stables.
The servant is gaining on Sef. He’ll be upon her in a matter of seconds.
I peel off one glove and slide the other down, exposing my wrist. Icy wind nips at the sliver of bare skin. My teeth grind against the cold as I touch my palm to the tshira pendant on my bracelet. The magic stored within fills me with familiar, comforting warmth.
Sef is almost to the sledge. The servant chasing her is just a few paces behind.
In a practiced motion, she flicks a hand over her shoulder.
I send a wave of heat at the ground behind her.
Snow melts into icy, slippery sludge. The servant chasing Sef isn’t expecting it. His next racing step sends his feet skidding. With a shout of surprise, he splashes to the ground.
Sef darts through the open coach door.
I tug the reins, urging the greyhorns to move. The sledge’s runners are oiled up every night, so they glide smoothly over the ice as we rush away.
I glance behind me. The melted snow at the man’s feet is already freezing again, making it difficult for him to rise.
He opens his mouth and cries out, but the sound is lost to the wind.
In a few seconds, silver snow clouds my vision, and I can see him no longer.
I’m shivering and exhausted by the time the oxen trot through the stable entrance at Widow’s Hall. A ramp leads from the blistering wind outside to the tunnels running underneath that contain the stables and dungeons. The sledge glides down the incline, deeper into the mountain, until we reach the animal stalls.
My body is ready to collapse, but there’s no time for that. I shove aside fatigue, discard my mask, and unhook the grey-horns from the sledge.
The stable walls are lined with tshira. Perfect for the decurio and their magic to keep the walls nice and warm so the animals don’t freeze. I fight a yawn as I brush snow and mud from the greyhorns’ thick coats.
Sef removes her mask next to me. “Want help?”
I give her a small smile. “Have you forgotten how you’re dressed?” I wave a hand over the thin Shadow Queen costume. Sef must be freezing. “Go to bed. Thanks for tonight.”
