Markless, p.7
Markless, page 7
The Heir’s fingers dig into her palms, and she grits her teeth. Slowly, the air level returns to normal. “You see?” the Regent says, satisfied. “You are incomplete Unbonded. I simply can’t give you your kingdom like this.”
The Heir stands, knocking her chair back into Orrin. “I will take my leave,” she grits out, and she twists around and walks from the banquet hall.
Ruti casts a wistful look at her meat, juicy and delicious and hardly touched, and follows.
The Heir is in a foul mood in the days that follow. When Ruti is in a bad mood, she tends to take it out on debris in the streets or Markless kids fool enough to harass her. Ruti likes to fight, to get out her anger until there’s nothing left.
The Heir is different. She bottles up her anger and lets it simmer, emerging only in wisps of uncontrolled power. Though the Heir has sewa, by far the least destructive of marks, Ruti is beginning to understand exactly what it’s capable of when she wakes up for the third night in a row because thunder is crashing around her. This time, even Kimya stirs, and she sits up and squints around while Ruti lies stubbornly in her bed with her eyes clamped shut. She knows who has come to visit again, and she refuses to acknowledge her until forced.
“Stop,” the Heir says, and she sounds frustrated. “Stop making those motions; I don’t understand you.” The bed creaks again, and the Heir says, “I ordered you to stop.” Kimya lets out a little whimper.
Ruti rolls over, ready to tell off the Heir for being cruel to Kimya. But when she opens her eyes, she’s startled to see the Heir crouching in front of Kimya, her dark eyes searching Kimya’s gaze for something. “You’re cold,” the Heir finally guesses, and Kimya nods vigorously. The Heir crooks an eyebrow. “That’s my doing,” she says dryly. “I tend to bring my presence wherever I go.”
Kimya jabs a finger at the door, a clear dismissal, and Ruti tenses. But the Heir only laughs lightly, the thunder calming around them. “I will leave in a moment,” she promises. “I have need of your witch sister.” Ruti snaps her eyes shut a moment too late, caught watching them, and she sees an instant of the Heir’s rueful regard. She opens them again, and the Heir still has the ghost of a smile on her face, painting little lines into the skin beside her eyes. Ruti stares. The Heir purses her lips together, the smile fading. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
Kimya waves at them as Ruti follows the Heir from the room, and Ruti looks between them. “What?” the Heir snaps.
Ruti shrugs. “Just wondering if you’re going soft.” It’s meant to provoke, as most of what she says to the Heir is.
The Heir scoffs. “In my uncle’s fantasies, perhaps.” A low chill falls over Ruti as they creep out of the Heir’s chambers. “A caravan has arrived outside of the Royal Square, and Prince Kobe must be with it. I want you to strengthen your magic on my mark.”
Ruti sighs. They’ve followed the same routine every day since Ruti has gotten here. In the morning, the Heir practices with Tembo. She departs at lunch to sit with the Regent in judgment, but in the afternoon Ruti is expected to join her with her tutors. They dine with the court at dinner and Ruti makes up new outrageous statements about what happens in Kaguruk, and then she’s free to wander the Heir’s chambers with Kimya until bedtime.
And every single night, without fail, the Heir has roused Ruti in the middle of the night and commanded her to do some paltry magic on the mark. At least tonight Kimya managed to distract the Heir from insisting that Ruti kneel first. “It’s strong enough,” Ruti says. “I can’t make the spirits give me more than they’ve offered.”
“Then I will find someone who can,” the Heir snaps.
“You keep saying that, but you haven’t replaced me yet,” Ruti points out. “Is finding a witch harder than you thought?”
The Heir gives her a dark look. “Ntuka has three witches. Aelin has eight. Somanchi’s Merchants’ Circle alone has a dozen witches who would be happy to serve their future queen. Zidesh has no shortage of witches.”
Ruti blinks at her, startled. The Heir says it with confidence, no lie in her voice, and it occurs to Ruti for the first time that the Heir means it when she says that Ruti can be replaced. “Then why pick some Markless girl from the slums?”
The Heir says, “No one will notice your disappearance.” It’s coldly calculating, a cruel thing to say, and Ruti does her best to shrug it off and fails.
“So that’s it? You brought me here to … what, die after I’ve served my purpose?” Ruti pieces it together with sudden dread. “If you never find your Bonded because of what I’ve done—what you’ve had me do—then I’m the only one keeping that secret,” she says. The Heir regards her silently. “And you can’t leave anyone behind who might know it.” She stops in the middle of the hallway to stare up at the Heir, aghast at her betrayal. It hits all the harder after she just saw that glimpse of the Heir’s unexpected gentleness with Kimya. “You’re going to kill me no matter what, aren’t you?”
She remembers, very suddenly, exactly how good the Heir is at combat, exactly how many guards are around them at any time, exactly how close the dungeons are. She’s known that she might die if she fails, has pushed herself night after night to ask the spirits for more because of that, but it hasn’t crossed her mind that even success will doom her.
She spins around, ready to turn back and grab Kimya and flee, but a hand lands on her arm, restraining her. “My life is in your hands,” the Heir says, and she sounds more subdued now, the coolness tempered with an emotion that Ruti can’t read. “My future is yours. If I have to take precautions, then.…”
Ruti clenches her jaw, furious and terrified, and the Heir murmurs, “I will have use for a witch in my court when I am queen. If you give me no reason to silence you, then I will not.” It is distant, disinterested, and that infuriates Ruti even more.
“So either I die or I’m yours forever? Will I never be free of you?” She cherishes her freedom, power, and agency because she’s scraped and fought for them for years. Now, in a flash, they’ve been stolen away from her.
The Heir straightens, looking down at her with eyes that have frosted over again. “I will be your queen,” she reminds Ruti coldly. “You are mine by definition.”
Ruti snorts. “You’ll be the queen to the merchants and the farmers and the craftworkers. Never to the Markless. We don’t exist in your world. You’ve all made sure of that.”
The Heir glowers at her. “Run,” she says.
Ruti stares at her. “So now you’re just going to … what, throw me out of the palace? Is this some sort of test?” She can’t make heads or tails of the Heir, and it’s growing more and more frustrating. “Are you going to send guards after me and have me tried as a—”
“No, you idiot,” the Heir hisses, and she seizes Ruti’s hand and yanks her away from the staircase they just descended. Ruti opens her mouth and the Heir claps a hand over it, pulling her into the shadows beneath the stairs just as voices sound nearby.
“It’s right past here, Your Highness.” One of the Regent’s main attendants is speaking, his voice low. “We are so thrilled to have you here. The princess has been so hopeful that you might be her soulbond.”
“As am I,” a man’s full, booming voice responds. He makes no attempt at quiet. Ruti cranes her neck to peer past the staircase at him. He’s considerably older than they are, past thirty years with a paunch only a royal could have, and he wears a gaudy velvet robe. Prince Kobe, she guesses. He speaks their language with the practiced accent of well-educated royalty. “I am the third son of a second son, and I have little chance of amounting to anything without a Bonded.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” the attendant says soothingly.
“I hear that the princess is a great beauty,” Prince Kobe says, licking his lips. “And young, too. Does she have childbearing hips? We are the land of the Toothed One, you know. The princes of Machajabe are as big-headed when we emerge from the birth canal as our patron spirit. My poor mother was bedridden for years after having me.” He guffaws. The attendant is looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment.
Ruti twists around to glance at the Heir. The Heir is flattened against the staircase, wind flying around her, and she looks absolutely petrified. Her eyes are wide and horrified, and she turns her palm, staring down at the mark on it. “He seems nice,” Ruti whispers, suddenly enjoying herself.
“I will have you cut to pieces and buried beneath the flower beds in the courtyard,” the Heir snarls in a low voice. The prince and his entourage are retreating, moving past the kitchens to a complex beyond them.
“I mean, he was empathetic,” Ruti says, grinning. “He was very worried about your … hips.” She glances down at the Heir’s hips, which are very nicely shaped indeed, though probably not for a big-headed Machajabe baby. “And he thinks you’re beautiful, so he isn’t unconscious.”
“Must you continuously do that?” the Heir demands, glaring at her. She is discomfited, a new look on her that Ruti thoroughly enjoys. Ruti has been confined in the palace for long enough that it’s a treat to see the Heir looking just as trapped as she feels.
“Do what?”
“Mock me,” the Heir bites out. “Put me in a position where I have no choice but to execute you for your insolence. You overestimate your worth, Markless brat.” But her words lack the smooth certainty that usually accompanies them, and Ruti realizes that the Heir is truly afraid.
She might deserve a soulbond like Prince Kobe, but Ruti isn’t mean-spirited enough to wish him on her. “My magic will hold,” she says firmly, and she struggles to muster up the confidence she wants to feel in it. “And there’s no way he’s your Bonded. Isn’t a bonding supposed to be between two perfectly matched souls?”
The Heir watches her for a pained moment, the air in the hall very thin. Then she exhales, a breeze on Ruti’s skin, and straightens. “Yes, of course,” she says, her arrogance returned. “He will be an excellent test of your abilities, though.” She turns, heading back to the stairs.
“Wait,” Ruti says, puzzled. “I thought we were going to go outside to strengthen the magic.” She pauses for a moment, piecing together what she knows of tonight, and says, “Did you know they’d bring the prince through this room? Did you just drag me out of bed to spy on him?”
The Heir raises her chin. “I couldn’t bring Orrin,” she says coolly. “He would be outraged on my behalf and pick a fight.” Ruti is about to agree when the Heir adds, “And he needs his sleep.”
“More than I do?” Ruti says dubiously. “At least I’m useful to you. He’s a boor who spends all day hovering behind you.” Orrin’s only redeeming quality, as far as Ruti sees, is his unwavering loyalty to Dekala.
“Watch your tongue,” the Heir snaps. “He is your future queen-consort.”
“Not mine,” Ruti reminds her stubbornly. The idea of Orrin being ruler of anything is laughable. He exists to linger in Dekala’s shadow.
The Heir swoops close to her. Ruti stands her ground as the Heir places a finger beneath her chin to pull it up, glaring down at her with those sharp, imposing eyes. Ruti is wordless, caught in the Heir’s stare, and she isn’t sure if it’s fear or defiance that stops her breath. “We shall see,” the Heir says, her voice dark, and she drops her hand and stalks past Ruti and up the stairs.
*
The Heir is formally introduced to Prince Kobe at dinner, where he is seated between the Regent and the Heir and eats half of the food off her plate while he talks about his family’s great fortune. “And I’m the heir to one quarter of one portion of that,” he says self-importantly. “Nearly six farms and a large estate.”
The Regent’s eyes narrow. “I was told you were a favorite prince of your land,” he says.
“Well, I’m certainly not the least favorite,” the prince says heartily. “That would be my cousin the king, who nearly disowned me because of a few tiny card debts when the message came from your kingdom that you thought I might be sweet Princess Dekala’s soulbond.” He puts an arm around the Heir’s seat. The air chills. “I love this quaint little idea she had to have a chat before we bond. She’s going to be such a delight in our kingdom, I imagine.”
The Regent looks a little ill. The Heir says, “I am ready for the soulbinding.” She stands.
The Regent blinks at her, startled. “This was enough time for you?”
The Heir smiles, thin-lipped and cold. “When you know, you know,” she says, turning to face Prince Kobe. “Why don’t we go for a walk in my gardens?”
Orrin’s eyes are thunderous from behind the Heir, and Ruti is nearly enjoying herself as she observes him. But still, there’s a pit in her stomach as she stands up to follow them, the Heir sandwiched between the two men and nodding slightly to keep Prince Kobe speaking.
“I have to say, I was a bit surprised when I heard that Princess Dekala’s scholars thought I might be her perfect match,” he says. “After all, you are practically a child, and a headstrong one, from what I hear. Hardly an appropriate match for a man of my intellect. But you are so lovely.” He puts a hand on her back. Orrin steams. Even Ruti has to fight the urge to shove him away. The Heir is untouchable, aloof, and the role she plays tonight—demure and sweet and innocent—doesn’t sit well with Ruti. If she’s uncomfortable, though, she doesn’t show it.
“Perhaps I need someone like you to remind me of the lighter things in life,” the prince says, and he turns to face the Heir. “And perhaps you need someone like me to keep you leashed.”
He raises his hand, palm out, and the Heir lifts her chin as though to gird herself for battle. She holds out her hand to match his and Ruti steps back, watching through the leaves as the Heir’s hand hovers in front of Prince Kobe’s. Carefully, in a low voice, Ruti chants to the spirits.
One last time, she begs them. One more time. Hold the magic. Prince Kobe presses his hand to the Heir’s, and Ruti feels the magic straining between her and the Heir, the spirits undecided. Ruti sings and sings, calls to every spirit she knows, and there is a sheen of light over the Heir’s palm that is so faint it’s nearly invisible.
Prince Kobe’s brow furrows and he presses a little harder. The magic shatters, the spirits retreating, and the light vanishes from between their joined palms. Ruti lets out a quiet curse and Orrin looks sharply at her. “It failed?” he hisses.
“I don’t—” Ruti wrings her hands and sings again, a low, desperate chant, but there is nothing but silence in response, nothing from the spirits but a flash of claws and teeth in warning.
The Heir stands stiffly. “It doesn’t seem to be taking,” she says at last. Ruti has been lucky, even with the shattered magic. There is no magic joining their hands, no glow between them. They are no match. When the Heir pulls her hand back, her palm still carries only the half circle of sewa.
The prince frowns. “That can’t be. I was certain you were my match,” he says. “And you were certain you were mine.”
The Heir gives him a regretful look that doesn’t quite mask the darkness in her eyes. “You would be a magnificent match,” she lies blatantly. “But I must be Bonded. Farewell, Prince Kobe.” The Heir turns away from him. “I hope you’ll leave me with my disappointment.”
When Prince Kobe is gone, Orrin surges forward to enfold the Heir in an embrace. She closes her eyes, allowing him to hold her, and Orrin murmurs, “He was hideous.”
“And this is whom the scholars select for me,” the Heir says grimly. She stands comfortably in Orrin’s arms, her own hands resting at his sides as he holds her. Ruti watches them from her spot behind the leaves, her eyes sharp and curious as she takes them in. Orrin’s affection is unmistakable, as is the gentleness with which the Heir leans against him.
The Heir is never gentle, never any less than sharp-carved steel, and perhaps that’s why Ruti is transfixed at the sight of them, even knowing what will come next for her. Because her magical barrier failed, because the Heir could have been bonded, because the spirits refused her request—but all she can do is stare at the Heir, the other girl’s eyes drifting shut for a moment as Orrin tucks his chin over her head.
And then, inevitably, the Heir’s eyes snap open, the moment of tenderness forgotten. “Markless traitor,” she hisses, twisting around to glare into the leaves. “Show yourself.”
Ruti panics. Years of being hunted by other Markless, of being attacked by guards, of being a handbreadth from death—they all kick in at once. Ruti moves by instinct, her heart thrumming with fear of what might happen to her now.
She twists away from the Heir and runs, runs from the Heir and from Orrin, runs from the gardens, and flees at a breakneck pace from the punishment to come.
She makes it nearly to the back entrance of the Royal Square before she remembers Kimya and makes an abrupt turn. There are sharp commands somewhere behind her—“Orrin, faster. Find her!”—that sound like a Fanged One’s sibilant hiss, and Ruti ducks down and flattens herself against a tree.
Orrin tears past her, his big angry face twisted into a sneer, and he peers around in the dimness, searching for Ruti. Ruti closes her eyes and sings a silent chant to the Scaled One for stillness, imagining its long snout and deceptively stubby legs barely visible beside logs in the river.
The Scaled One grants her request without need for an additional offering, and Orrin twists around without noticing her at all. Ruti burrows into the trees, closing her eyes and thanking Kalere privately for choosing a dark green gown for her today. She blends into the dark, and soon Orrin is calling, “She’s gone.”
A rustle through the trees, a crack of thunder, and the Heir says coldly, “I refuse to accept that. Send out guards to find the Markless witch. Tell them not to return without her.” Her voice is clear, her words deadly, and Ruti shivers as thunder rumbles above the palace.
She’s been caught before dozens of times, and she knows that the best way to run is not to run at all. Stay put, wait as your pursuers search outside for you, and you can steal away once they’ve given up. She’ll have to go retrieve Kimya, and the two of them can hide out in the massive palace while the Heir fruitlessly tears apart Somanchi in search of her.
