Well, I think it’s lucky. Osian might not agree.
His door sits second to last at the end of the hall. I knock, and the sound echoes in the silence. I let several moments pass before trying again. Clearly, he’s not there. That or he knows it’s me, and he’s avoiding me.
Sighing, I drift back down the hall, passing gold-framed portraits of High Swynwragedd and Rhyfelwyr of the past. TheOrder has served for several hundred hundred years, since the stars fell and our gods died, an event that threatened the very fabric of our existence.
At the grand staircase, I pass a group of Rhyfelwyr dressed in battle leathers. Their cheerful chatter suggests they’re returning from a morning in the training yard rather than a mission against the growing rebel threat. They scarcely glance my way. Most never do. Rhyfelwyr rarely mingle with us Swynwragedd unless absolutely necessary. They especially avoid me. Having magic rooted in death seems to carry the same stigma as walking around covered in shit. No one wants to get near it, and risk me rubbing it off on them.
As promised, Seren and Lowri are tucked inside the study, their spines curved as they lean over the worktable, poring over a stack of documents. Neither elven leader hears me enter, even when the click of the door echoes through the lofted space.
The study serves as their personal library. Despite its modest size, they’ve managed to wedge in four towering bookshelves overflowing with books and scrolls. More stacks litter every exposed surface, and the one bare wall has been papered over with an enormous map depicting the entire continent, including the two warring kingdoms, the borderlands, and the rebel lands.
A narrow strip of sea leads to the human islands—or what remains of them. Someone has drawn a question mark beside each. Something lives on those islands, but we don’t know what. Every scouting party we’ve sent to investigate has never returned.
I clear my throat.
Seren’s head snaps up. Her glossy hair falls in perfect waves around her delicate shoulders, only the pale tips of her ears breaking through the rich amber. Like most elves, her eyes match the color of her hair, and when she focuses them on you,it feels as though flames might leap from her gaze and burn you to ash.
Lowri is no less imposing. She wears her wavy black hair to her waist, where a belt holds seven tiny daggers. I’ve never seen her without them. Rumors claim she has a better aim than most of the Rhyfelwyr. Her dark pupils nearly consume the whites of her eyes, an unsettling mirror of the night sky. She earned her position as a High Swynwraig through sheer cunning and furtive violence, though no one has ever proven she orchestrated the poisonings of her rivals.
Some say we could be twins, but I don’t see it. She’s far more arresting than I could ever hope to be.
“Sit.” She points at the only vacant chair, caged between them.
I cross the room, carefully stepping over piles of books. When I ease into the chair, they turn toward me in unison, like they’re one person split in two. I’ve been here many times, having been welcomed into their inner circle years ago, but they’ve never looked at me like this.
Like I’m an insect to be studied.
I clear my throat. “Osian, is he all right?”
Seren drums her long fingernails against the wood. “This isn’t about Osian.”
Surprise flutters through my belly, edged with fear. “Please don’t tell me he didn’t make it.”
“He made it,” Lowri replies, her voice as cold as the bitter winds of the north. “But his target did not.” She lifts a brow. “It seems you’ve been keeping something from us, Angharad. When were you going to tell us you can kill by touch?”
3
My veins flood with ice. The rhythm of my heart turns wild, like the jaunty tunes played in the roughest pubs in Caer Draen. The stares of both High Swynwragedd are piercing enough to bore through my skull, like they’re trying to stab the truth straight from my mind.
Osian must have found the rebel’s body after unconsciousness claimed me. Until now, he’s kept my secret, but he’ll be furious that I lied to him.
Angry enough to betray me? Maybe.
That thought hurts more than I want to admit, but I can’t dwell on it. Not when I’m moments away from being sent to the stocks—or worse.
“Well?” Lowri clicks her tongue, clearly unimpressed by my silence.
I clear my throat again, like that might conjure the right words. It doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last, clenching my hands in my lap. “That aspect of my magic is not something I’m proud of, nor something I wish to use. So I thought it was best to…”
“You know how the Order feels about keeping secrets,” Seren replies, her frown deepening.
When we commit ourselves to the Order, we make an oath to dedicate ourselves to the kingdom and to the innocents who lack the strength or magic to protect themselves. It means giving up our entire life. We own nothing. Not a house, not a scrap of land. Not even the clothes on our backs. We don’t alter our appearance without permission or marry without the Order’s blessing. We do not sing songs, write fanciful tales, or paint the sun as it sinks beyond the sea’s white-capped horizon.
And we certainly don’t keep secrets.
Especially not one as large as mine.
