A Vow So Bold and Deadly Page 7

  “Yes.” His voice breaks a little. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He gives a hasty bow and shuffles backward.

  I turn to look at Nolla Verin. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Did you hear what she was saying? Someone had to do it.”

  “I would have addressed it. You do not need to undermine me.”

  “She was leaving. Were you going to send her a letter?”

  The worst part of all of this is that my sister is right. I glance at the window again. On the training field, the soldiers have broken apart into sparring groups. I’ve lost sight of Grey and the others, which must mean they’ve joined the fighting.

  I consider what Kallara just said before the guards took her ability to speak. Side with a man, then. I shouldn’t be surprised.

  Mother never ruled with a man at her side, and I was raised with the belief that no queen needed a king in order to rule effectively. But Grey is the true heir to the throne of Emberfall, and ruling together could bring peace to both our kingdoms.

  I never thought any of my subjects would see a man at my side as another brand of weakness.

  I think of all the meetings where Grey hasn’t been invited. The dinners, the parties. The whispers about whether he will truly side with Syhl Shallow against his home country of Emberfall. The queries about whether I am strong enough to rule if I want a man on a throne next to me.

  I don’t know if that means I should have Grey here for all of this—or if it’s better for him to be on the fields.

  I know what Mother would think.

  Some of the people waiting for an audience have filtered out.

  It’s not because of me. It’s because of my sister.

  I sigh and look at my remaining guards. “You will wait for my order before taking action. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Their words sound hollow. I don’t know how to fix that. Nolla Verin is murmuring with Ellia Maya now. I think they must be talking about me, but then the advisor nods and rises to leave the room. When my sister looks back at me, her expression isn’t repentant at all. She looks smug.

  I have to fight to keep from scowling. Clanna Sun claps her hands. “Who is next? Bring forward the next issue.”

  A girl in a long, dark cloak shuffles forward. She’s short, with broad shoulders, with a spill of lank auburn hair that hangs across half her face. She seems very young to be approaching the queen with an issue I am expected to solve, but maybe that’s the hesitancy of her steps. She seems to be trembling.

  My heart softens. These are the subjects I want to help. The ones who would have been afraid to approach Mother.

  “Come forward,” I say gently.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispers. She peeks up at me and eases all the way up to the dais. Her voice is so quiet, wavering a bit on the syllables. “I am truly grateful for an audience with you. I … I have brought you a gift.” Something made of glass glistens in the shadow of her cloak.

  I hold out a hand. “Come,” I say again. “Have no fear.”

  She takes hold of my hand and steps up onto the dais. Her fingers are tiny and trembling, her palm damp. Stone rings adorn her fingers. Her eyes flick to Nolla Verin and Clanna Sun, and she wets her lips.

  “What can I do for you?” I say.

  She withdraws her gift. It’s a crystal bottle, the neck wrapped in gold and red silk. She snaps her fingers, and the stones of her rings spark, catching the silk. A small flame erupts.

  I suck in a breath and jerk back. A guard starts forward and I hold up a hand.

  The girl smiles. The crystal sparkles under the flame, the silk disintegrating into sparks that fall at her feet. “Your gift, Your Majesty.”

  I hesitate. It’s lovely, like a lamp with a wick on the outside.

  “Magic,” she whispers, “will destroy you.”

  Then she throws the bottle against the stones at my feet, and fire erupts around us.

  CHAPTER TEN

  GREY

  The best thing about swordplay is that it needs no translation.

  Most of the soldiers speak Emberish well, but many don’t—and many choose not to. I’ve discovered that many lapse into Syssalah when they don’t want me to know what they’re saying.

  I’m not fluent yet, but I’ve learned enough of their language to know when they’re talking about me. I know they don’t trust me—or my magic. Many of them think I’m too young, too loyal to Emberfall, too much of an outsider. Too … male. Fell siralla was once a bit of an endearment between me and Lia Mara, but I’ve learned that here in Syhl Shallow, it’s a real insult. Stupid man. No one has the courage to say it to my face—yet—but I can see it in their eyes. I can hear it muttered under their breath when I give an order they’re not in favor of.

  In Syhl Shallow, men are appreciated for strength and fighting, which seems fine on the surface, until I discovered that it means men are mostly valued for their ability to carry heavy loads and die in battle.

  I’m definitely not valued for any skill with magic.

  Despite the challenges I face, I’m happier on the training field with a sword in my hand. Language and politics don’t matter once a blade is flying. All that matters here is skill.

  I face six opponents. Four are soldiers in Syhl Shallow’s army, two women and two men. One is my guard Talfor, and the other is Jake, my best friend and closest ally. Iisak soars high overhead, feeding his power into the air. It took me a long time to recognize the feel of his magic, because it’s not stars and sparks the way my own is. It’s a feather-light touch from the wind on a calm day, a bite of cold rain on my cheek when the sun hangs high overhead, a needle of ice to slip under my armor and make me shiver. He can slow the air, making my opponents’ movements a fraction more sluggish. It would slow me, too, but I can use my magic to accelerate my swordplay. I feel the magic of his resistance and slice through it, holding off all six blades with lightning speed.

  One of the men, a captain named Solt, ducks my sword and tackles me around the midsection, using brute strength to do the same thing.

  Iisak’s magic makes the fall slower, but somehow it hurts more. The soldier draws a dagger, aiming for my throat, but I’m quick, and I use my bracer to block before he gets close.

  “You can’t slice through everything,” he says, and there’s an edge in his voice.

  Captain Solt doesn’t like me. He’s not the only one.

  I duck out of his hold, trying to reclaim my weapon, but he kicks it out of reach and tries to pin me. He’s a second too slow, but he has the strength to make up for it, and we end up rolling, grappling, fighting for purchase. He’s got my arm wrenched back, and I wouldn’t put it past him to pull it right out of its socket. Solt would likely kill me if he thought he could get away with it. I taste dirt and blood on my tongue, but my sword is only an inch—maybe—

  An icy blast of wind rockets across the field. “Magic,” Iisak calls.

  Ah. Yes. Magic. Sparks and stars flare in my vision, and I cast my power into the ground. Fire blazes up from the dried grass around us.

  Solt swears and lets me go, scrambling back, smacking at his arm where the fire caught. His eyes are dark with irritation. The sparring matches around us have drawn to a close, and now we’re the center of attention. The other soldiers shift away from the charred ground and speak under their breath in Syssalah.

  I let the flames die as another blast of cold wind sweeps across the field. Jake steps over to me and puts out a hand to pull me to my feet. I take it, then claim my sword and drive it into its sheath.

  My eyes are on Solt, though. “That wasn’t the point of the exercise.”

  “We fought,” he says darkly. “You used magic. Your plan, yes?”

  He says magic in the same voice he’d use to accuse me of cheating. Not quite mockery, but definitely contempt.

  This feels dangerously close to insubordination—if we’re not there already. But he’s got the respect of most of the soldiers on this fi
eld, and he’s good with a sword. I need him as an ally, not an enemy. Still, the tension between us thickens the air.

  There’s only one other soldier here who isn’t wary—or disparaging—of my magic. Tycho stands a short distance off, sheathing his own sword. He’s only fifteen, and small for his age, but he begged for a chance to train with the recruits. At first, the younger soldiers all but refused to spar with “the boy,” but Tycho put one of them on the ground in less than twenty seconds, so now they grudgingly allow it.

  He’s watching the standoff between me and Solt.

  Jake steps closer. “Let’s do it again,” he says equably. Jake’s very good at playing the peacemaker, at pulling the tension out of a moment without making anyone yield ground.

  “Fine,” I say. I cast a glance up at the sky and whistle to Iisak.

  The soldiers mutter again, shifting back into their formations. This time I don’t need any translation. They’ve reluctantly allowed the scraver to help us train, but they do not see him as an ally. He was enslaved by Karis Luran, and is now oath-bound to me, but they do not trust him.

  In truth, most of them do not trust me.

  Iisak eases to the ground beside me, his wings folding neatly. “Your Highness,” he says, his voice rasping on the words. He doesn’t need to call me that, and I’ve told him not to, but he says it reminds others of my role here.

  “Five minutes,” I say to him. “We’ll go again.”

  A horn blares from the palace, and I startle. So do most of the others around me. The horn sounds again before I can speak. Then a third time, followed by a pause. It’s louder than their battle horns, almost deafening.

  A gasp goes up around me.

  I look at Talfor, my guard. “What does it mean?”

  He’s gone pale. “An attack.”

  “Rhen?” says Jake. His voice has gone tight. “Is he attacking?”

  “No,” says Talfor. “An attack on the queen.”

  Lia Mara is in her chambers, prone on the bed, but it’s hard to see past the press of guards and advisors surrounding her. Her eyes are barely open, her skin ashen. As I get closer, I notice tears glistening on her cheeks, and my chest tightens as my heart gives a kick. Nolla Verin is on her knees beside her sister, clutching Lia Mara’s hand, kissing her knuckles. On her other side is Noah, a doctor formerly of Washington, DC, but now known as a healer from Disi. He’s pressing a dripping roll of fabric against her legs.

  Then I see the blistered, reddened flesh. The blood. The charred fabric. The soot on Nolla Verin’s robes and cheeks.

  “He’s coming,” Nolla Verin is murmuring. When she sees me in the doorway, her eyes flare wide. “Grey. There was an attack.” Her voice breaks. “There was—she was—you have to heal her.”

  I’m already beside the bed, pulling at the soaking fabric, looking for the source of damage.

  “Slow,” says Noah, grabbing my wrist. “Slow. There’s a lot of glass.”

  Then I see the small pile beside him, each piece bright with fresh blood.

  I hesitate, my eyes finding his. “What happened?”

  “Some kind of bottle bomb.” I must be looking at him blankly, because he says, “A Molotov cocktail. I don’t know what you’d call it here. An incendiary—”

  “Magic,” someone hisses.

  “Not magic,” Noah says emphatically. “This was done on purpose, but it wasn’t magic.”

  “How do you know?” demands Nolla Verin.

  “The prince was using fire on the training fields,” says one of the advisors. “Perhaps his magic went awry—”

  “It wasn’t magic!” Noah snaps. “If you bring me a bottle and some lantern oil, I can make another one right here.”

  They gasp. “The healer has made a threat—”

  “It’s not a threat,” I snap. I look over my shoulder at Jake, but he’s already beginning to move the crowd of people out of the room.

  More carefully this time, I pull at the soaking linens. The skin underneath is badly burned, the smell sickly sweet. Smaller bits of glass cling to the skin.

  Lia Mara winces, then tries to shift. Her eyes flutter open. A sob escapes her throat.

  “Easy,” I say softly. “Easy.” I take a breath and press my hands against the worst of the damage, closing my eyes, summoning the stars of my magic. Her breathing shudders, and I wish for my magic to be faster, but I know from experience that if I try to force it, the stars will scatter away into nothing.

  There’s so much damage, though. I can feel her anguish. I can hear it in every breath.

  “What happened?” I say, and my voice is rough and low.

  “A girl,” says Nolla Verin, and her voice is fierce, but tears sit on her cheeks, too. “She came up to the dais, under the guise of making a plea. She said she had a gift, and it looked like a lantern. But then she threw it at her feet, and it—it burst. Lia Mara’s robes caught—the draperies caught—fire was everywhere—”

  “Where is the girl?” I say.

  “She’s dead, Your Highness,” says one of the guards who’s remained in the room. Her voice is nonplussed, as if there would be any other fate for someone who’d dare attack their queen.

  I understand the impulse, but when I was in the Royal Guard, we’d try to leave someone alive to question. Now we’ll have no way of knowing who sent her or whether she was truly working alone.

  Lia Mara takes a slower, steadier breath. The skin of her calves is no longer red and raw. The remaining bits of glass have slipped free to land among the bed linens. I glance up and find her eyes. “Where else are you hurt?”

  She shakes her head quickly. “I’m not. I’m—I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” says Nolla Verin. “You were attacked.”

  Noah draws the wet cloths away. He looks at the guards. “Send for fresh linens.”

  The guards hesitate. Exchange glances.

  I don’t know if it’s about me or if it’s about Noah, but it’s definitely a hesitation born of mistrust, and I’m glad when Nolla Verin snaps, “Now.”

  Attendants bring fresh linens and new robes. Nolla Verin pulls into the corridor to speak with Ellia Maya. Jake tells me he will inquire as to what happened, then he slips out of the room as well. I stand with folded arms and watch as the sheets and blankets are replaced. Noah waits by my side.

  “You are certain this was not magic?” I say to him quietly.

  “I think it was made to look like magic.” He pauses. “When people are afraid of something, it’s easy to bolster their fear.”

  I think of the soldiers on the field, shifting uncertainly when we worked through the drills. I think of the voices of Lia Mara’s advisors when Noah mentioned the weapon.

  Now that the immediate danger has passed, the fear in my chest has dissipated, allowing room for anger to crowd in.

  No one should have been able to cause so much damage.

  It’s probably better that Jake is going to make inquiries about what happened. As Prince Grey, I am expected to be political and controlled.

  Right now, I want no part of either.

  Once the attendants leave, Lia Mara looks at Noah. “You have my thanks, as always.”

  He smiles, then claps me on the shoulder before turning to leave. “It was all Grey this time.”

  She looks up at me, and I’m sure my mood is no secret. “Forgive me for interrupting your training sessions,” she says. She pauses. “You may return to the fields if you like.”

  I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or if she is trying to put on a brave face, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t be dismissed as easily as Noah and her advisors. “You were attacked. I will not leave this room.”

  “You will have to leave eventually,” she says.

  We’re alone now, but her guards wait just outside the open door. It’s rare that we have complete privacy, and even so, there is much gossip about my relationship with their queen. “If you wish to rest, I will remain in the hall.”

  She pu
ts out a hand. “No.” Her eyes find mine, and in that moment, I see her fear, her uncertainty. “Stay.”

  I step forward to take her hand, easing onto the side of the bed, sitting beside her in the silence of her chambers. She should have moved into the queen’s rooms months ago, but she still resides in the same space she occupied when we first met, when she was not a princess, when Nolla Verin was destined to be queen.

  Her wounds have fully closed, and her linens have been changed, but blood stains her robes and marks of soot linger on her skin. I should call for an attendant, but her fingers wind tightly through my own, so I do not move.

  “Fell vale,” says Lia Mara, and I look down.

  Gentle man. Far from it. I want to fight something into the ground. There’s a part of me that regrets that they already killed her attacker—for reasons that have nothing to do with interrogation. “I don’t feel very gentle right now,” I say.

  She uses my grip on her hand to pull herself to sitting. I should protest, but before I can, she tucks herself into the circle of my arm, her back against my chest, her head nestled under my chin. She draws my arm into her lap, and I hold her tight and sigh.

  “See?” she says softly. “Gentle.”

  “I should be at your side when you allow an audience with your people,” I say.

  She says nothing, and I add, “I would have seen her intent. I would have stopped her before she caused so much damage.”

  Lia Mara begins unbuckling my bracer, and I want to resist, but her fingers are light and deft—and I’m generally powerless when there is something she wants. “You cannot know that,” she says.

  “I do know that.”

  She inhales to protest, and I turn her in my arms so I can face her. My hands are on her waist, and though I’m not rough at all, she winces.

  I freeze. “Forgive me. Are you still hurt?”

  “Just a bit sore.”

  I feed magic into my hands again, then lean in to press my forehead to hers. “Your guards should not have allowed her to draw so close. I do not know if that was through fault or deliberation, but either way, I should be at your side.”