Valeria leaned on the windowsill, a noxious breeze burning her gaunt cheeks.
Cadmus turned and swept toward the door, his golden hair shining in the lantern light. “The king and the prince in one day,” he said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “And perhaps we will take Scathmore Barrens back for Sennalaith. If we do, the dragons might just come back, and then Marwenna will be humbled.”
Below the manor house, in the camp sprawled on the edge of the marsh, a bugle blew. Dragons mounted into the sky, their wings shaking the casement windows. Olivette should have been among them, fearless and brash, flying into the teeth of the enemy. Olivette should be the one to kill Evandaine, not Valeria. She didn’t assassinate people; she just swept in on the tail of the battle and mowed down the remaining forces, tangling their feet in thorny vines and striking them with her zephyrs.
“Why tonight?” Valeria asked wearily.
“Because your mother’s spirit will be nearest tonight,” Cadmus replied. “Today marks fifteen years since her murder. The goddesses will allow her spirit to part the clouds and look down on us. You know this.”
Valeria did, but she had forgotten. Long ago, she’d stopped worshipping the goddesses and adopted the monotheistic beliefs of her mother. Old teachings, simpler, devoid of silly rituals and empty prayers.
Cadmus let out a contented sigh. “I dream of someday riding a hydra into battle—can you imagine? Marwenna’s superstitious illiterates would run weeping.”
Valeria smiled to hear her father refer to the Ashkendoric people as superstitious. His library was stacked with books of religious lore, detailing all the terrible judgments the threegoddesses brought down on Sennalaiths who transgressed their innumerable rules.
“Magic is so rare, Valeria. I would sell my kingdom to have the gifts you inherited through your mother. You should enjoy them more.”
“I didn’t inherit my mother’s gifts,” Valeria said flatly. “She didn’t have my kind of magic.”
“That is very true.” There was a hint of disdain in his voice.
A question had been gnawing at Valeria since she watched her sister stripped of her uniform and sent half-naked out of the manor house to be carried into exile.
“If my sister is gone, am I the heir to the throne?”
“Goddess divine, have mercy!” her father cried with a short, scornful laugh. “You are only a half-blooded Sennalaith, and so you could never sit on the throne. I will have to appoint a cousin, now that your sister is gone. Whatever gave you that idea?”
Valeria looked down, her cheeks burning. “I just thought since my mother was a sort of queen of Talwaith …”
“Oh no.” Cadmus rubbed the white bird’s beak. “Talwaith is no more. It’s the Scathmore Barrens now—just a blighted battlefield and a stretch of muddy beach. You’ve seen it. You’ll see it again tonight. Besides, Talwaith has no monarchy. Your mother was the botania, not the queen, so if I claim Scathmore, it will belong to me, and I may rule it as may your sister or your cousin, but you could never wear the crown. Not that there is anything left to rule; the people are all gone.”
“Then what did the botania do if not rule?”
“Did you pay any attention to that dreadfully expensive tutor I hired? She used her magic to summon spring. Lovely magic—very unlike yours.”
Valeria kept her gaze fixed on the swirling gray lines in the marble window sill. Her vision drifted out of focus, and the lines morphed into little dragons curling through smoke.
“Hurry, we must prepare for battle. And clean yourself up. You look a mess.” Cadmus left, shutting the door behind him.
Valeria gritted her teeth, crossed the room, and pounded her fist on the vanity. Thorns snaked over the walls, clattering, glowing a venomous purple. She made a promise to herself. That night, she would kill the prince as her father ordered, find out where Olivette was, and flee. Then, with her sister at her side, she would return and blast their father with such a cloud of caustic enchantment, he would be burned hollow.
The crown would sparkle all the brighter on Olivette’s golden hair.
Valeria smirked in the mirror. Tonight was her last night in Sennalaith. Tomorrow would dawn blue and clear on a new era.
Chapter two
Evandaine
Ashkendoric Military Encampment;
Scathmore Barrens
“I will not survive this battle, Evandaine.”
Evandaine Ageric watched in silence as his father, Tiernan, rushed around the armory tent, selecting a shotfire, a cutlass, and a black dragon scale vest. His voice was husky and hushed, his words so quick and cutting Evandaine struggled to parse them. He handed Evandaine the vest, but snatched it back as his son reached for it.
“No, not this one. Wear one less like mine. We look so alike in the darkness.”
