Still, she doesn’t say any of this. Instead she frowns down at the mask. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because, Skylar,” he begins slowly, “you are currently the most important person in the entire kingdom—so if you need a night out to be at your best, then maybe you ought to have one.” He hesitates, then drops his voice a fraction. “And because I might not be able to alleviate anyone else’s suffering, but I can, for one night at least, do something about yours.”
She stares at him. He’s doing this to beniceto her?
He jerks his head. She debates for about a second. But she meant what she said to Simone. She’s so sick of this castle. And she goes to the island in a week—so if this is her last chance to see beyond its walls, she has to take it.
Outside the gates, she breathes in the spice that laces the night air as the sounds of the city wash over her. The hum of Vitalas, worn shoes slapping sunbaked streets, rushed chatter as people pass each other in the street.
Axel walks next to her, a silent presence. As they pass a tavern, she thinks of the “meeting” she was supposed to overhear the night she was captured. A setup, sure—but is there a chance she might overhear something useful while she’s out here?
“So how did you end up living at the castle anyway?” she asks Axel, like it’s a continuation of a conversation they’ve been having.
He raises one eyebrow in recognition of that fact. Or maybe just in surprise that she’s asking. “I grew up there.”
Skylar tries to imagine Axel as a child, and just can’t. “I’m sure that was… fun.”
“My mother was Zryan’s bodyguard,” he says, and there’s something in his tone she can’t quite read.
Skylar’s eyebrows shoot up. She’s never really thought of the prince needing a bodyguard, but she supposes he was young and defenseless, once. “She must be pretty powerful.”
“She was.” Skylar doesn’t miss the past tense. “She was a Precog.” It’s one of the powers Skylar has secretly coveted in the past, and she’s impressed despite herself. True foresight is impossible—it’s not a Blooded power, rather the stuff of myths and children’s stories. But Precogs can see up to a few minutes ahead—which, she’s sure, would make them badass fighters, if they wanted to be.
She wonders for the first time what it must be like to grow up needing a bodyguard. To grow up knowing there’s a target on your back—and knowing your future is to die or kill. That’s what the witch grew up with, too.
Axel is looking at her. Waiting for some kind of reaction, presumably. “So… what happened to her?” she asks.
“That,” he says coolly, “is none of your business.”
Right. They pass by a small square, lamplight flickering in the dark. On the corner is a busker, with that thin, unwashed look Skylar has seen all too often. A near-empty hat lies in front of him, as his voice scratches the air. She wonders if he grew up here, or if he moved from the dying lands out on the southern coast, perhaps, in search of something better.
Axel’s face is illuminated briefly, but his gaze isn’t on the singer. It’s on her hands.
“The scars,” he says evenly. “How did you get them?” It’s not the first time he’s seen them, of course, but it’s the first time he’s acknowledged them.
She starts to curl her hands into fists, then stops herself. Why should she hide? “I wasn’t born knowing how to catch a dagger,” she says. “And out in the real world, if you want to eat, you learn how to make money, fast. Otherwise you end up like him.” She jerks her head toward the busker, who has noticed them now. She walks on, down an alley, before he can get his hopes up. “Not that I’d expect you to know anything about that.”
“Just because I live in the castle doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on outside her walls.” His voice is quiet—almost soft. If it were anyone else, she’d say it was a pleasant voice.
Bitterness rises in her. “If you know, and you do nothing about it, then that’s worse.”
He takes her arm, pulls her around to face him. “You really think I’m doing nothing?EverythingI do is for the sake of this country, her people. I’m trying to stop the rebels from making things worse. And training you—what do you think will happen if Vatra doesn’t win? Because, I assure you, the poor will suffer far more than the rich if we’re forced to cede the Heart.”
Skylar is shaking her head—because they’ve all heard this story before, about how the duel is evidence of the royals’ benevolence, how they are “sacrificing” themselves for the greater good. Only they never actually have to sacrifice themselves, do they? Instead, all they do is kill.
“If you’re saying this to put more pressure on me, then—”
“I’m not.” He lets go of her arm. “I’m saying it so you understand that what I’m trying to do… It’s bigger than either of us.” It’s hardlyan apology, but his voice holds a hint of that—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of the way he is treating her.
“So you’re stopping the rebels from saving people because you care so much about the kingdom?”
His gaze meets hers. “The rebels might think they’re helping, but they don’t understand.”
“So, what, you want the Blooded to train to fight, so that the Bloodless are protected if the witches invade? Is that it? Or are you planning to invade the witches yourselves?”Why, she wants to ask—why bother conscripting at all?
