“There’s no spin, Your Majesty. The incident with Prince Amron was a vile treachery, and if the culprits are Seragian, they will be executed promptly. I admitted my doubts about them to you, but in public, I will take the blame and apologize, if that’s what it takes to appease the king and the city. But I want you to promise me that the incident won’t affect the crown prince’sbehavior to his future wife. The carevna is blameless, and arrives in good faith, hoping to end three centuries of conflict. I need assurance that she will be received as such.”
Melia’s gaze focused on a fine thread in her lap until she could see every fiber. From the corner of her vision, a red pool of blood spread towards the center and the stench of iron and gore filled her nostrils.
“You have my word that your carevna will be welcomed with friendship and respect,” the queen said. “I will treat her as my own daughter, and the crown prince, I assure you, knows his duty. We’ve worked too hard for this treaty to let one random incident destroy it.”
“I agree, Your Majesty. Every Seragian in Abia knows this wedding is of the utmost importance.”
The queen’s features softened a little. “Let’s have some tea, then, and agree no lasting damage has been done.”
Melia’s hands trembled so hard that needle slid under her fingernail and blood ruined the lace in her lap.
• • •
Ferisa was anobody, that much was clear, even to Melia who barely knew anything about the world. She never talked about her family or home, and only gods knew what wind had blown her towards the border forts and into the path of Roderi of Elmar.
She had a reputation as an herbalist; the soldiers sought her out when they needed arrowfoil for alertness or poppy to ease the pain. She was also a guide, a priestess of the Goddess of Death who eased the passage to the other side. She fit right in among the soldiers who worshiped death.
After she’d given Melia back her voice, Melia was afraid her father would drive Ferisa away as he’d driven away all womenfrom her late mother’s retinue. But Ferisa had carved a place for herself deep in the bowels of Syr, where she boiled her herbs and distilled her potions and soon it seemed she’d been there forever. Melia followed her around like an infatuated pup. It wasn’t just that Ferisa was a little older, it was that she acted with the utmost confidence of a grown-up.
“Who taught you all this?” Melia asked.
“Oh, I picked it up here and there.”
“How did you manage to give me back my voice?” Melia asked.
“It never went anywhere, little raven. It was inside you.”
That might have been true. There were so many things buried inside Melia—she felt like a graveyard. Ferisa had simply pushed a hook into the wet earth and fished out a silver string of her voice, leaving everything else inside, rotting in the dark.
Melia learned to talk again to please her father, but rarely did so. Her voice had grown raspy, unmodulated, and using it to break the silence felt like sacrilege. She made herself invisible. She ate as little as possible, she moved without making a sound, she never demanded attention. She perfected her shadowy existence so flawlessly that even her father forgot about her sometimes and left her alone. If he ran into her by mistake, his eyes would widen in surprise, as if he’d forgotten he had a daughter.
When Melia became a woman, it was Ferisa who taught her how to fold the linen rags, who massaged her back and gave her chamomile and fennel tea to ease the cramps. When men started noticing Melia, it was Ferisa who explained what they wanted from her and how to dodge them. Ferisa was a friend, a cousin, an older sister to her, and if Melia’s feelings towards her weren’t entirely sisterly, she was too confused to explore them.
Then Rovin died and everything changed.
The winter Melia turned nineteen, they brought Rovin home from some insignificant skirmish within sight of the very walls ofSyr. Her brother, the heir to Elmar, the apple of her father’s eye.
She ran into the courtyard when she heard the commotion. The gray afternoon sky hung low over the rooftops, sucking out the light. The servants were shouting for torches, a page was sent to fetch the physician. “Lord Rovin is hurt, we need help immediately,” they cried.
Melia, the only woman in the crowd, pushed towards the cart with two frothing horses still harnessed to it.
“Let me pass,” she demanded, but the men paid little attention to her. She elbowed through the pack and jumped on the back of the cart. Cousin Maren knelt there, pressing down a dirty bundle of cloth.
“Don’t look,” Maren said, but she couldn’t take her eyes off her brother.
She’d never been close to Rovin because men and women rarely spent time together in Syr, and Rovin was mostly on the border, fighting. Still, he was her only remaining sibling, after their two brothers died in the crib. The shared experience of the spare, strict childhood spent in Syr bound Melia and Rovin forever with the fierce loyalty of survivors. There was no other person in the world who knew what it meant to be their father’s child.
Forcing her eyes away from the wound, she pushed his dark hair off his sweaty forehead. He breathed through his mouth in quick, shallow gulps.
“Rovin,” she said, praying that the horror she felt didn’t show on her face, “you’re home now.”
His arm, cold and clammy, caught hers. “Mother,” he whispered. “Mother, it hurts.”
She blinked, unable to say anything.
“Move.” Maren grabbed her shoulder and pushed her away. “We need to carry him inside.”
She turned and her father was behind her. His face reflectedevery last morsel of fear and desperation Melia felt. “Bring him in,” he barked. “Move, damn you!”
