The starless crown, p.14
The Starless Crown, page 14
The man stiffened, near to leaping out of his seat. He looked from king to prince to yet another prince.
So, a poor relation, one clearly out of place here.
Kanthe noted a small smile of derision on Mikaen’s face. His twin lounged to their father’s left, leaning on the arm of his chair. He had trimmed his gold-blond hair to a skullcap of tight curls, again likely for ease of suiting into armor. He looked far harder than when last the two of them had faced one another. His sea-blue eyes had an ice to them now. He seemed far more a man than Kanthe, no longer the boon companion who chased his younger brother through these halls, shouting and laughing.
In even this way, they had grown apart.
Dressed in his best finery, Kanthe still felt like a coarse chunk of coal before a hard, polished diamond.
Their father spoke again. “Your cousin Harlac has come to us with a tale both strange and tragic. A difficulty that his brother, the highmayor of Fiskur, seeks our help to amend.”
Kanthe heard Frell stir behind his left shoulder. The alchymist had accompanied him here after the summons from Abbot Naff, offering his assistance. Naff had tried to discourage his attendance, but the abbot had no more luck than Kanthe in turning aside the stubborn alchymist.
“What tale did our cousin tell?” Kanthe asked, finally speaking up.
The king leaned forward. “The mayor’s son—who was in his seventhyear at the Cloistery—was slain most brutally. His head ripped from his shoulders by a monstrous Mýr bat.”
Kanthe inwardly flinched, knowing any outward reaction would be judged.
“The mayor asks for a force to accompany his daughter back to school, and once there, to rid the swamps of such a savage monster.”
Kanthe frowned. He knew such beasts numbered in the thousands, hunting throughout the swamps and marshes. “How can we possibly know which beast slew our cousin’s son?” he asked, stymied how any just vengeance could be achieved.
“Ah.” The king motioned to the liege general. “I’ll let Haddan elaborate.”
The huge man cleared his throat of what sounded like a blockage of rocks. “We’ll proceed into the swamps with a full century of our forces.”
Kanthe choked back a gasp.
A hundred knights? For a hunt?
But Haddan wasn’t done. “And they’ll be led by a score of Vyrllian Guard.”
Now Kanthe did gasp, which earned a humorless smile from his older twin. The Vyrllian Guard contained the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with faces entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies.
“We will not be hunting for a lone killer,” Haddan continued. “For too long, such monsters have plagued the swamps. We will commence a great hunt, to eliminate as many of the foul beasts as we can over the turn of a moon. If we can’t rid them all, we’ll at least knock them back and give them good caution to ever return to the haunts of men.”
Kanthe felt sick, trying to imagine such a slaughter. As a hunter, he had learned to take only what one needed from a forest or meadow. Wanton killing for no other reason than bloodshed struck him as cruel and heartless. He could not even stomach the steel traps he sometimes encountered. When he did, he would spring them with a branch or stick, lest those sharp teeth imprison and needlessly torture a beast.
Frell stepped forward into Kanthe’s stunned silence. “Excuse me, sire, but if I might make an inquiry, as I spent nine years in Mýr.”
Toranth waved permission.
Frell bowed his thanks, then spoke. “If I’m not overstepping myself, I imagine that such a culling of these creatures goes beyond mere vengeance.”
The king lifted one brow. “It seems there is a reason you’re the youngest of Kepenhill’s Council of Eight.”
“I’m honored, sire.”
“But you are correct. There is another purpose behind this hunt. For the past year, Haddan and Abbot Naff have strategized ways to strengthen our weaponry. From novel designs of war machines to new chymistries of quicklime and pitch.”
Kanthe remembered the loud boom that had shaken through Kepenhill.
His father continued, “But the Shriven have suggested another way to add potency and malignancy to our arrows, blades, and spears.”
Frell nodded. “Poison.”
The king’s other brow rose to join the first. “Exactly. It is well known that the venom of these winged beasts is inordinately deadly. No man has survived it. The Shriven believe that if that poison could be properly distilled from the glands of those monsters that the lethality of our weaponry could be increased a hundredfold.”
Kanthe swallowed hard, both impressed and horrified.
“Which brings us to a last detail,” Toranth said. “I said no man has ever survived this venom—but a woman has. A blind girl who was involved in the attack atop the Cloistery. Not only did she survive the poison, but her sight was returned to her. Surely such a miracle is a sign from the gods.”
Frell’s shoulders tightened.
“I want her brought back to Highmount,” Toranth said. “Here where the Shriven and our physiks can properly study her in full. Blood, bile, flesh, whatever is necessary. Knowledge of her uniqueness might prove valuable. And whether it does or not, such a blessing from the gods should not languish in the swamps.”
The king’s gaze finally fixed upon his dark son. “And as these matters are of utmost importance to the realm, Prince Kanthe will join the hunt.”
Kanthe fell back a step, shocked.
The king continued, “Word has reached me of his considerable skill in such pursuits. It is high time for my second son to come out of the shadows and prove his worth.”
Kanthe tried to balk, imagining himself slogging through a bog. He sought words to argue against his involvement, but he found none. How could he refuse the king, deny his father?
Mikaen looked no happier. He sat straighter and leaned over to whisper in the king’s ear, but he was scolded away. All Mikaen could do was cast an aghast look at both king and liege general.
Heat built in Kanthe’s breast. Was his brother so enamored with himself that he couldn’t let his brother be polished a little brighter?
Frell stood taller. “My liege, if I may, I would like to accompany Prince Kanthe. If he’s to be gone a full moon, I can continue his studies, using lessons found in the swamp or at the Cloistery. And mayhap my knowledge of the winged denizens could prove useful in the distillation of the beasts’ poison.”
The king waved flippantly. “Whatever you think best.”
Frell bowed and backed to join Kanthe. The alchymist cast him a worried sidelong look. Kanthe remembered the black missive on his mentor’s table and felt the noose around his neck snug even tighter. But now was not the time to discuss such concerns, especially as all eyes were now upon the king’s dark son.
“Wh … When do we depart?” Kanthe stammered out.
“Your ship sets sail in two short days,” his father replied. “So you best ready yourself.”
Kanthe nodded. He understood the haste. The king wanted his youngest son—ever the embarrassment to the family—gone from the city before the coming marriage of Mikaen to Lady Myella.
So be it.
With everything settled, the king pushed his chair back with a loud squeak and stood.
Mikaen quickly followed suit. So did all the others. As Haddan shoved up, he stared over at Kanthe, his face stoic and cold. A hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed dagger as he sized up the younger of the two princes. From the deepening scowl before he turned away, the liege general did not like what he saw.
I can’t disagree with you, Kanthe thought. But maybe that could change.
And he knew the first step toward that goal.
* * *
KANTHE IGNORED THE glances cast his way as he climbed the stone stairs that wound through the barracks of the Legionary. He had never set foot inside here before. He had expected to hear the clash of steel, the raucous calls of hard men, the ribaldry of comrades-in-arms.
Instead, the training halls of the king’s legions seemed as studious as any found at Kepenhill. The only exception was the bawling and barking from the kennels at the base of the barracks, where the legion’s war dogs were housed and trained alongside the boys and young men.
As Kanthe climbed, he was eyed by those he crossed on the stairs. Even if he wasn’t still dressed in his formal finery, everyone knew the Tallywag, the Sodden Prince of Highmount. Whispers and smatters of laughter followed in his wake, but he kept his back straight.
He reached the eighth tier of the barracks, searched for the proper door, and rapped his knuckles on it.
A muffled curse answered him, accompanied by a shuffling. The door was yanked open. “What do you want—”
Mikaen’s words died as he recognized the visitor standing at his threshold. The storm building atop his brother’s brow blew out and was replaced with a narrow-eyed wariness. “Kanthe, what’re you doing here? Did you get lost on your way back to Kepenhill?”
Kanthe ignored the jibe and shoved past his brother. As he entered Mikaen’s room, he was surprised to discover the domicile of the king’s bright son was even smaller than Kanthe’s place at Kepenhill. There was a mussed bed, a small scarred desk, and a large wardrobe, which stood open, revealing the silvery glint of armor. Mikaen had stripped out of his own finery and wore only a longshirt, exposing his bare legs. He looked far younger, less the polished knight-in-training.
Kanthe raised the small ebonwood box that he had carried here. “A gift. For your wedding. Since I won’t be attending your nuptials.”
Mikaen frowned. “You could’ve sent a courier.”
“I wanted to deliver it in person.”
Mikaen sighed and accepted the box. He undid the clasp and opened it. He stared inside for a long breath. When he lifted his face again, a small smile graced his handsome lips. The expression was both winsome and amused.
“You kept it,” he said.
Kanthe shrugged. “How could I not?”
Mikaen lifted out the small sculpture that was cradled inside the case. It was a rough bit of pottery, formed of molded clay, rolled and prodded into the crude shape of two boys. The figures faced each other, clasping arms. One had been glazed in crackles of white, the other in dark gray.
Kanthe nodded to it. “You made that for me when I was laid up in bed with a bout of Firepester, when no one was allowed in my sick room.”
Mikaen’s voice cracked a bit. “I remember … I wanted to be beside you, even when I couldn’t.” He glanced over. “Why do you return this to me now?”
“For the same reason you gave it to me long ago. I leave in two days. You will soon be married. I wanted you to know that as much as we’ve grown apart—” He pointed to the kiln-fused arms of the tiny figures. “I’ll always be with you in spirit.”
Still, there was another reason Kanthe had snuck back to their old rooms in Highmount and removed the box hidden under the floorboards. He had wanted to remind Mikaen of the boy he once was, someone kind to a feverish younger brother. While they had spent the past eight years growing apart, maybe now was a chance to reverse that, to find their way back to one another.
Mikaen gently lowered the piece of pottery into its case, returning both princes to their tiny cupboard. He placed the box on his desk and rested his palm atop the lid. “Thank you, brother.”
“Know this,” Kanthe said. “To the best of my abilities, I will always be at your side. This I swear.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Mikaen faced around; a boyish grin played about his lips. “That is, if you don’t get yourself killed in those swamps. I tried to dissuade Father from sending you, but his mind is set. You know how stubborn he can be.”
All too well.
Still, Kanthe inwardly cringed. He remembered Mikaen whispering in the king’s ear at the council table, only to be scolded away. Kanthe had thought that particular exchange had been motivated out of jealousy, not concern.
Kanthe stepped forward and hugged his twin brother. Mikaen stiffened for a breath, then relaxed, finally encircling Kanthe in a hard embrace. The years fell away between them.
“I can try again,” Mikaen offered in his ear. “To convince the king that you should remain here.”
Kanthe broke their hold. They were left grasping each other’s forearms, as if the brittle pottery had come to life.
“No, dear brother,” he said, “it’s high time for this prince to get out of the cupboard.”
Once and for all.
FIVE
RUMORS OF RUIN
Those who ascend the heyest
Risk suffering the grettest fall.
Those who turn their back in fear
Will næffre knou what awaits
Biyonde the far horizon.
—Words etched on the ninth step of the ninth tier of every school across the Crown; tradition holds it be kissed by each Ascendant
14
NYX STARED IN the silver mirror at the miracle before her.
“It suits you,” Jace said. “Like you were always meant to wear it.”
Nyx smiled shyly, smoothing a palm down the ceremonial robe. One side was starkly white, so bleached that it ached the eye in bright sunlight. The other was as black as burnt coal, so dark it seemed to draw shadows to it with every swish. She had never imagined she would ever wear such finery, certainly not a robe of Ascension.
In three days, she and the other aspiring ninthyears would climb the steps to the summit. Starting down at the first tier, their ascent would begin with the dawn bell and take until the final ring of Eventoll. They would traverse the course on their hands and knees, contemplating where they had started and where they were headed. Only once they kissed the ninth step leading up to the top could they stand and take their place at the summit of the Cloistery.
For seven years, she had watched the procession from the side, both envious and proud of those crawling skyward.
And soon I will be among them.
“I can hardly believe it,” she mumbled to the mirror.
“I never doubted it,” Jace said, grinning broadly.
She smiled back at him in the reflection, but her expression was strained by guilt. Jace had failed his fifthyear. He would never wear this robe. Yet, over the past span of days, he had never once showed a flicker of jealousy or spite. Even now, she read the pride shining in his bright round eyes, in the genuineness of his smile. He also showed no resentment for the crick in his healing nose. The break was surely still sore after the pummeling he had suffered because of her.
The wound tempered her jubilation, reminding her that she had enemies.
With the midsummer break ending in three days, many of the students who had left for home or escaped the hottest part of the year for more pleasant climes were already returning. The stairs between levels had grown more crowded. The noise and bustle of the school increased each day.
During this time, Nyx had kept wary watch for any of her former classmates, especially those who had hunted her, one in particular. So far, there had been no sign of Kindjal, the sister of Byrd. She glanced down to her palms, expecting to see blood there.
Jace must have sensed the darkening of her mood. He shifted and rubbed his ink-stained hands. He had come straight from the scriptorium to review her final fitting. He still wore a leather apron from liming fresh hides this morning.
“Now that we know your robe is properly hemmed,” he said, “you had best return it to its chest until the ceremony. I’ll step outside. Once you’re done, we should start on that last volume of Hálendii histories and review those geometrical theorems that you were struggling with.”
“Of course,” she said, but it came out like a groan. She apologized with a warmer smile at Jace. “I’ll be right out.”
Jace met her gaze for a breath, then turned away, his cheeks blushing nearly as bright as the red locks that poked from beneath his leather cap. He hurried out of the dressing chamber. Once alone, she faced the mirror again. She chewed her lower lip, reluctant to take the robe off. She had worked so hard to obtain it. She feared if she slipped it off that it would vanish away, like in some taunting dream.
She pinched the rich linen, testing its thickness and solidity.
“This is mine,” she whispered, staring at her face, watching her lips move. “I’ve earned it.”
She tried to force those words into her heart, as she had every day. But again, she failed. She knew the only reason she was wearing this robe was because Prioress Ghyle had convinced the others that her survival was some portentous blessing of the Mother, marking Nyx as worthy of Ascension.
Unfortunately, Nyx could not convince herself of the same.
Especially considering how far I’m behind in my studies.
She glanced back to the door.
Jace had spent most of the past fortnight instructing her here, in a set of rooms near the fourth tier’s healing wards. The space—abandoned by a physik who had left for the jungles of the Shrouds in search of new herbal medicums—had been granted to her by the prioress. Nyx had no other place to go. She was no longer a seventhyear, and as she was skipping the eighth, she had no room on that level. Even the ninth was forbidden to her until after the formal ceremony.
She could have gone home to her dah and brothers, but the prioress had wanted her close to Physik Oeric in case her health worsened. Plus, she had a slew of studies she needed to complete, to fill the gaps in her knowledge from skipping her eighthyear and to do her best to catch up to the ninthyears.
Ghyle had given Nyx and Jace a long list of assignments, the essentials of the eighthyear lessons. The prioress had also sent over a bevy of novitiates and alchymical students to help with this task. Still, most of the work had fallen on Jace’s considerable shoulders.
Up until now, Nyx had been proud of her accomplishments, confident that she could tackle any thorny problem if given enough time. No longer. She felt like a firstyear again, unsure, lost, struggling. Jace even had to teach her to read. He had always been her eyes in the past. Now that she could see, she needed to learn to read on her own, and she still fared poorly at it.
So, a poor relation, one clearly out of place here.
Kanthe noted a small smile of derision on Mikaen’s face. His twin lounged to their father’s left, leaning on the arm of his chair. He had trimmed his gold-blond hair to a skullcap of tight curls, again likely for ease of suiting into armor. He looked far harder than when last the two of them had faced one another. His sea-blue eyes had an ice to them now. He seemed far more a man than Kanthe, no longer the boon companion who chased his younger brother through these halls, shouting and laughing.
In even this way, they had grown apart.
Dressed in his best finery, Kanthe still felt like a coarse chunk of coal before a hard, polished diamond.
Their father spoke again. “Your cousin Harlac has come to us with a tale both strange and tragic. A difficulty that his brother, the highmayor of Fiskur, seeks our help to amend.”
Kanthe heard Frell stir behind his left shoulder. The alchymist had accompanied him here after the summons from Abbot Naff, offering his assistance. Naff had tried to discourage his attendance, but the abbot had no more luck than Kanthe in turning aside the stubborn alchymist.
“What tale did our cousin tell?” Kanthe asked, finally speaking up.
The king leaned forward. “The mayor’s son—who was in his seventhyear at the Cloistery—was slain most brutally. His head ripped from his shoulders by a monstrous Mýr bat.”
Kanthe inwardly flinched, knowing any outward reaction would be judged.
“The mayor asks for a force to accompany his daughter back to school, and once there, to rid the swamps of such a savage monster.”
Kanthe frowned. He knew such beasts numbered in the thousands, hunting throughout the swamps and marshes. “How can we possibly know which beast slew our cousin’s son?” he asked, stymied how any just vengeance could be achieved.
“Ah.” The king motioned to the liege general. “I’ll let Haddan elaborate.”
The huge man cleared his throat of what sounded like a blockage of rocks. “We’ll proceed into the swamps with a full century of our forces.”
Kanthe choked back a gasp.
A hundred knights? For a hunt?
But Haddan wasn’t done. “And they’ll be led by a score of Vyrllian Guard.”
Now Kanthe did gasp, which earned a humorless smile from his older twin. The Vyrllian Guard contained the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with faces entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies.
“We will not be hunting for a lone killer,” Haddan continued. “For too long, such monsters have plagued the swamps. We will commence a great hunt, to eliminate as many of the foul beasts as we can over the turn of a moon. If we can’t rid them all, we’ll at least knock them back and give them good caution to ever return to the haunts of men.”
Kanthe felt sick, trying to imagine such a slaughter. As a hunter, he had learned to take only what one needed from a forest or meadow. Wanton killing for no other reason than bloodshed struck him as cruel and heartless. He could not even stomach the steel traps he sometimes encountered. When he did, he would spring them with a branch or stick, lest those sharp teeth imprison and needlessly torture a beast.
Frell stepped forward into Kanthe’s stunned silence. “Excuse me, sire, but if I might make an inquiry, as I spent nine years in Mýr.”
Toranth waved permission.
Frell bowed his thanks, then spoke. “If I’m not overstepping myself, I imagine that such a culling of these creatures goes beyond mere vengeance.”
The king lifted one brow. “It seems there is a reason you’re the youngest of Kepenhill’s Council of Eight.”
“I’m honored, sire.”
“But you are correct. There is another purpose behind this hunt. For the past year, Haddan and Abbot Naff have strategized ways to strengthen our weaponry. From novel designs of war machines to new chymistries of quicklime and pitch.”
Kanthe remembered the loud boom that had shaken through Kepenhill.
His father continued, “But the Shriven have suggested another way to add potency and malignancy to our arrows, blades, and spears.”
Frell nodded. “Poison.”
The king’s other brow rose to join the first. “Exactly. It is well known that the venom of these winged beasts is inordinately deadly. No man has survived it. The Shriven believe that if that poison could be properly distilled from the glands of those monsters that the lethality of our weaponry could be increased a hundredfold.”
Kanthe swallowed hard, both impressed and horrified.
“Which brings us to a last detail,” Toranth said. “I said no man has ever survived this venom—but a woman has. A blind girl who was involved in the attack atop the Cloistery. Not only did she survive the poison, but her sight was returned to her. Surely such a miracle is a sign from the gods.”
Frell’s shoulders tightened.
“I want her brought back to Highmount,” Toranth said. “Here where the Shriven and our physiks can properly study her in full. Blood, bile, flesh, whatever is necessary. Knowledge of her uniqueness might prove valuable. And whether it does or not, such a blessing from the gods should not languish in the swamps.”
The king’s gaze finally fixed upon his dark son. “And as these matters are of utmost importance to the realm, Prince Kanthe will join the hunt.”
Kanthe fell back a step, shocked.
The king continued, “Word has reached me of his considerable skill in such pursuits. It is high time for my second son to come out of the shadows and prove his worth.”
Kanthe tried to balk, imagining himself slogging through a bog. He sought words to argue against his involvement, but he found none. How could he refuse the king, deny his father?
Mikaen looked no happier. He sat straighter and leaned over to whisper in the king’s ear, but he was scolded away. All Mikaen could do was cast an aghast look at both king and liege general.
Heat built in Kanthe’s breast. Was his brother so enamored with himself that he couldn’t let his brother be polished a little brighter?
Frell stood taller. “My liege, if I may, I would like to accompany Prince Kanthe. If he’s to be gone a full moon, I can continue his studies, using lessons found in the swamp or at the Cloistery. And mayhap my knowledge of the winged denizens could prove useful in the distillation of the beasts’ poison.”
The king waved flippantly. “Whatever you think best.”
Frell bowed and backed to join Kanthe. The alchymist cast him a worried sidelong look. Kanthe remembered the black missive on his mentor’s table and felt the noose around his neck snug even tighter. But now was not the time to discuss such concerns, especially as all eyes were now upon the king’s dark son.
“Wh … When do we depart?” Kanthe stammered out.
“Your ship sets sail in two short days,” his father replied. “So you best ready yourself.”
Kanthe nodded. He understood the haste. The king wanted his youngest son—ever the embarrassment to the family—gone from the city before the coming marriage of Mikaen to Lady Myella.
So be it.
With everything settled, the king pushed his chair back with a loud squeak and stood.
Mikaen quickly followed suit. So did all the others. As Haddan shoved up, he stared over at Kanthe, his face stoic and cold. A hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed dagger as he sized up the younger of the two princes. From the deepening scowl before he turned away, the liege general did not like what he saw.
I can’t disagree with you, Kanthe thought. But maybe that could change.
And he knew the first step toward that goal.
* * *
KANTHE IGNORED THE glances cast his way as he climbed the stone stairs that wound through the barracks of the Legionary. He had never set foot inside here before. He had expected to hear the clash of steel, the raucous calls of hard men, the ribaldry of comrades-in-arms.
Instead, the training halls of the king’s legions seemed as studious as any found at Kepenhill. The only exception was the bawling and barking from the kennels at the base of the barracks, where the legion’s war dogs were housed and trained alongside the boys and young men.
As Kanthe climbed, he was eyed by those he crossed on the stairs. Even if he wasn’t still dressed in his formal finery, everyone knew the Tallywag, the Sodden Prince of Highmount. Whispers and smatters of laughter followed in his wake, but he kept his back straight.
He reached the eighth tier of the barracks, searched for the proper door, and rapped his knuckles on it.
A muffled curse answered him, accompanied by a shuffling. The door was yanked open. “What do you want—”
Mikaen’s words died as he recognized the visitor standing at his threshold. The storm building atop his brother’s brow blew out and was replaced with a narrow-eyed wariness. “Kanthe, what’re you doing here? Did you get lost on your way back to Kepenhill?”
Kanthe ignored the jibe and shoved past his brother. As he entered Mikaen’s room, he was surprised to discover the domicile of the king’s bright son was even smaller than Kanthe’s place at Kepenhill. There was a mussed bed, a small scarred desk, and a large wardrobe, which stood open, revealing the silvery glint of armor. Mikaen had stripped out of his own finery and wore only a longshirt, exposing his bare legs. He looked far younger, less the polished knight-in-training.
Kanthe raised the small ebonwood box that he had carried here. “A gift. For your wedding. Since I won’t be attending your nuptials.”
Mikaen frowned. “You could’ve sent a courier.”
“I wanted to deliver it in person.”
Mikaen sighed and accepted the box. He undid the clasp and opened it. He stared inside for a long breath. When he lifted his face again, a small smile graced his handsome lips. The expression was both winsome and amused.
“You kept it,” he said.
Kanthe shrugged. “How could I not?”
Mikaen lifted out the small sculpture that was cradled inside the case. It was a rough bit of pottery, formed of molded clay, rolled and prodded into the crude shape of two boys. The figures faced each other, clasping arms. One had been glazed in crackles of white, the other in dark gray.
Kanthe nodded to it. “You made that for me when I was laid up in bed with a bout of Firepester, when no one was allowed in my sick room.”
Mikaen’s voice cracked a bit. “I remember … I wanted to be beside you, even when I couldn’t.” He glanced over. “Why do you return this to me now?”
“For the same reason you gave it to me long ago. I leave in two days. You will soon be married. I wanted you to know that as much as we’ve grown apart—” He pointed to the kiln-fused arms of the tiny figures. “I’ll always be with you in spirit.”
Still, there was another reason Kanthe had snuck back to their old rooms in Highmount and removed the box hidden under the floorboards. He had wanted to remind Mikaen of the boy he once was, someone kind to a feverish younger brother. While they had spent the past eight years growing apart, maybe now was a chance to reverse that, to find their way back to one another.
Mikaen gently lowered the piece of pottery into its case, returning both princes to their tiny cupboard. He placed the box on his desk and rested his palm atop the lid. “Thank you, brother.”
“Know this,” Kanthe said. “To the best of my abilities, I will always be at your side. This I swear.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Mikaen faced around; a boyish grin played about his lips. “That is, if you don’t get yourself killed in those swamps. I tried to dissuade Father from sending you, but his mind is set. You know how stubborn he can be.”
All too well.
Still, Kanthe inwardly cringed. He remembered Mikaen whispering in the king’s ear at the council table, only to be scolded away. Kanthe had thought that particular exchange had been motivated out of jealousy, not concern.
Kanthe stepped forward and hugged his twin brother. Mikaen stiffened for a breath, then relaxed, finally encircling Kanthe in a hard embrace. The years fell away between them.
“I can try again,” Mikaen offered in his ear. “To convince the king that you should remain here.”
Kanthe broke their hold. They were left grasping each other’s forearms, as if the brittle pottery had come to life.
“No, dear brother,” he said, “it’s high time for this prince to get out of the cupboard.”
Once and for all.
FIVE
RUMORS OF RUIN
Those who ascend the heyest
Risk suffering the grettest fall.
Those who turn their back in fear
Will næffre knou what awaits
Biyonde the far horizon.
—Words etched on the ninth step of the ninth tier of every school across the Crown; tradition holds it be kissed by each Ascendant
14
NYX STARED IN the silver mirror at the miracle before her.
“It suits you,” Jace said. “Like you were always meant to wear it.”
Nyx smiled shyly, smoothing a palm down the ceremonial robe. One side was starkly white, so bleached that it ached the eye in bright sunlight. The other was as black as burnt coal, so dark it seemed to draw shadows to it with every swish. She had never imagined she would ever wear such finery, certainly not a robe of Ascension.
In three days, she and the other aspiring ninthyears would climb the steps to the summit. Starting down at the first tier, their ascent would begin with the dawn bell and take until the final ring of Eventoll. They would traverse the course on their hands and knees, contemplating where they had started and where they were headed. Only once they kissed the ninth step leading up to the top could they stand and take their place at the summit of the Cloistery.
For seven years, she had watched the procession from the side, both envious and proud of those crawling skyward.
And soon I will be among them.
“I can hardly believe it,” she mumbled to the mirror.
“I never doubted it,” Jace said, grinning broadly.
She smiled back at him in the reflection, but her expression was strained by guilt. Jace had failed his fifthyear. He would never wear this robe. Yet, over the past span of days, he had never once showed a flicker of jealousy or spite. Even now, she read the pride shining in his bright round eyes, in the genuineness of his smile. He also showed no resentment for the crick in his healing nose. The break was surely still sore after the pummeling he had suffered because of her.
The wound tempered her jubilation, reminding her that she had enemies.
With the midsummer break ending in three days, many of the students who had left for home or escaped the hottest part of the year for more pleasant climes were already returning. The stairs between levels had grown more crowded. The noise and bustle of the school increased each day.
During this time, Nyx had kept wary watch for any of her former classmates, especially those who had hunted her, one in particular. So far, there had been no sign of Kindjal, the sister of Byrd. She glanced down to her palms, expecting to see blood there.
Jace must have sensed the darkening of her mood. He shifted and rubbed his ink-stained hands. He had come straight from the scriptorium to review her final fitting. He still wore a leather apron from liming fresh hides this morning.
“Now that we know your robe is properly hemmed,” he said, “you had best return it to its chest until the ceremony. I’ll step outside. Once you’re done, we should start on that last volume of Hálendii histories and review those geometrical theorems that you were struggling with.”
“Of course,” she said, but it came out like a groan. She apologized with a warmer smile at Jace. “I’ll be right out.”
Jace met her gaze for a breath, then turned away, his cheeks blushing nearly as bright as the red locks that poked from beneath his leather cap. He hurried out of the dressing chamber. Once alone, she faced the mirror again. She chewed her lower lip, reluctant to take the robe off. She had worked so hard to obtain it. She feared if she slipped it off that it would vanish away, like in some taunting dream.
She pinched the rich linen, testing its thickness and solidity.
“This is mine,” she whispered, staring at her face, watching her lips move. “I’ve earned it.”
She tried to force those words into her heart, as she had every day. But again, she failed. She knew the only reason she was wearing this robe was because Prioress Ghyle had convinced the others that her survival was some portentous blessing of the Mother, marking Nyx as worthy of Ascension.
Unfortunately, Nyx could not convince herself of the same.
Especially considering how far I’m behind in my studies.
She glanced back to the door.
Jace had spent most of the past fortnight instructing her here, in a set of rooms near the fourth tier’s healing wards. The space—abandoned by a physik who had left for the jungles of the Shrouds in search of new herbal medicums—had been granted to her by the prioress. Nyx had no other place to go. She was no longer a seventhyear, and as she was skipping the eighth, she had no room on that level. Even the ninth was forbidden to her until after the formal ceremony.
She could have gone home to her dah and brothers, but the prioress had wanted her close to Physik Oeric in case her health worsened. Plus, she had a slew of studies she needed to complete, to fill the gaps in her knowledge from skipping her eighthyear and to do her best to catch up to the ninthyears.
Ghyle had given Nyx and Jace a long list of assignments, the essentials of the eighthyear lessons. The prioress had also sent over a bevy of novitiates and alchymical students to help with this task. Still, most of the work had fallen on Jace’s considerable shoulders.
Up until now, Nyx had been proud of her accomplishments, confident that she could tackle any thorny problem if given enough time. No longer. She felt like a firstyear again, unsure, lost, struggling. Jace even had to teach her to read. He had always been her eyes in the past. Now that she could see, she needed to learn to read on her own, and she still fared poorly at it.
