“He was right to hit me,” Amril said, still trying to keep it light, make it sound like a misunderstanding. “I insulted a girl he was talking to.”
A girl, Ferisa had mentioned a girl. What did she say?He was snuggling with a girl in a dark alley. A stunningly beautiful girl.Is that why Amron had hit his brother? Over some pretty courtesan they both wanted?
She looked at her husband, the toxic jealousy inside her heart goading her to enjoy his humiliation. Was he the same as Amril, chasing after every warm body in a skirt?
Her father was studying her with a greedy half smile.
“You will not mention your whores here at court,” the king barked, his face crimson. “I don’t care about explanations. Amron hit you and he will apologize for it.”
Amril looked sick. Melia’s gaze found the queen, silently begging her to do something, to stop this charade. But the queen remained silent, refusing to intervene.
“Get on your knees, now,” the king said, “or I’ll have my guards make you.”
Amron stood still for one endless moment, while Melia and everybody in the room held their breath. She expected him to turn on his heel and leave, she willed him to do it, to be braver than Amril, braver than her, braver than every courtier around them. If anyone could stand up to the king, it was Amron.Defy him, she thought.
Instead, Amron blinked slowly, stepped forward, and knelt before his brother. When he spoke, his voice was clear and crisp, pitched to carry. “I apologize for hitting you, Amril. I hope you will forgive me.”
Amril looked at the king and opened his mouth to saysomething, but at that moment the queen turned away from the scene abruptly and marched out, followed by a train of flustered ladies-in-waiting. The movement broke the evil spell that had held the onlookers chained in place, and the crowd dispersed like a shoal of fish before a predator. Roderi of Elmar disappeared in the shadows. Amril touched the king’s shoulder and said, “Come, Father, it’s done.” Even the servants, still holding their trays, scurried away.
In a few heartbeats, there was no one left in the room but Melia and Amron, still on his knees. She wanted to touch him, to say something kind. To say she knew what it felt like to be humiliated, used as a tool, unloved. While she struggled to find the appropriate words, he stood up without sparing her a glance and walked away.
She realized she was still holding the marzipan rose in her hand, now squeezed to mush. Her palm was dyed red.
Chapter 15
Liana
Liana jumped overthe wall in the back alley. The villa’s garden was a jungle of weeds swallowing the few remaining fig trees. The brambles tore at her dress and scratched her skin, and she bitterly regretted leaving her riding boots and trousers at the palace. The nettles burned her as she pushed them out of her path, and sharp, hungry branches grabbed at her hair as she ducked to slip beneath them. No human hand had touched this wilderness in years. It had grown and spread in the perfectly impersonal malevolence of the natural world which only cared for light and food and survival.
The lock to the back door of the villa was too rusted for picking, but a narrow, unglazed window beside the door had shutters with a latch that was easy to lift. Liana slipped into a chamber filled with cobwebs and dust. The darkness swallowed her like a thick, cold sludge, wrapping itself around her limbs, trapping her in its freezing embrace.
Holding her breath, sliding like a fox through a village, she searched the ground floor. A feeling of unease raised the hairs on the back of her neck: the hostile divine magic urging her to flee, to leave this cursed place behind.
The kitchen, the pantry, the storage rooms were all empty, void of any signs of life. In the entrance hall, there were footprints in the dust, leading upstairs. Liana followed them, carefully balancing her weight on each wooden stair to avoid creaks.
Upstairs, a pale, milky light trickled in through the shutters, seemingly unconnected to the bright sunshine outside. Lianapaused, listening to the sounds of the house. Nothing moved.
The first door she opened led into a bedroom where the narrow bed had a canopy of cobwebs, and a long-dead pigeon, which must have entered through some hole, lay on the desk. The dust on the floor was undisturbed so she moved on.
The second door opened into a dim room with a clean floor. It was sparsely furnished: a narrow bed, a writing desk, a chair, a chest of clothes. A pungent scent of herbs assaulted Liana’s nose, and she noticed another, smaller chest beside the bed. It was open, and filled with satchels and vials. As Liana stepped closer, she noticed a heap of dark clothes at the foot of the bed and a curved blade in a leather scabbard. She knelt down to investigate. The clothes were spattered with blood and the blade was a Seragian yatagan, the same weapon the attackers had wielded. It was the proof she was looking for.
An arm wrapped itself around her throat and an astringent odor filled her nostrils as a rag covered her nose and mouth. She held her breath instinctively. Someone pulled her backwards, throwing her off balance, making her flail her arms in vain, looking for a hold. Forced to choose between breathing and suffocating, she gulped in air though the fabric. A strong, bitter smell engulfed her in its dizzying cloud. Her vision darkened, narrowing to a white spot on the wall, while the arm tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe.
Then Liana’s legs found their footing and she pushed backwards, slamming into the nearest wall. Her assailant yelped and released their grip just enough for Liana to get a lungful of fresh air. Before they had the time to tighten it again, Liana reached backwards, grabbed their arms, and threw them over her head.
As the body hit the floor, Liana recognized the woman Melia had talked to in the garden. She turned as soon as she hit the floorboards and grabbed Liana’s ankle, pulling her forward.Liana lost balance, still dizzy from the vapors, but as she fell, she delivered a kick to the side of Ferisa’s head with her other leg. The woman rolled towards the heap of dark clothes—and the blade. Liana threw herself in her path and they both grabbed for the yatagan. As Liana reached for the hilt, Ferisa’s elbow connected with her jaw. Pain exploded in Liana’s head, blinding her for long enough for Ferisa to snatch the weapon and roll away from her.
In a heartbeat, they were both up again, staring at each other from opposite parts of the small room.
Ferisa’s eyes, black like two jet beads, shone with arrowfoil frenzy. Liana recognized its bitter odor, she’d seen Seragians use it in the war—it gave them enhanced speed and focus for a while, but burned more energy than the body could produce, turning its regular users to withered husks.
Ferisa didn’t look like she lacked energy, though. She was fast, strong, and surprisingly quiet when she moved. It occurred to Liana that she should have come prepared for more than snooping around.
“It’s you again.” Ferisa crammed the opiate-soaked rag in her pocket, drew the blade, and threw the scabbard behind her. “You fight too well for a common whore. Who sent you?”
Never taking her eyes off Liana, Ferisa locked the door and slipped the key into her pocket; she could afford a short interrogation now. Liana spat out the blood that had filled her mouth. She’d cut her cheek when Ferisa elbowed her. Her head swam, either from the kick or from that blasted rag. One quick scan of the room told her there were no other weapons.
Ferisa was no ordinary opponent. Coils of darkness gathered around her in a slow spiral dance, the mark of the goddess Liana wanted to avoid at all costs. She didn’t have to ask Ferisa who had sent her—she knew.
