Between Smoke and Shadow

8. Harrick

EIGHT

HARRICK

“Crocodile,” Tora hisses. She drops into the metal chair to my right and taps her fingernails against the table. She’s wearing a floor length dress, almost too dark to be considered red and tight enough she might suffocate before dinner.

Without acknowledging my sister, I settle my elbows on the black table’s edge. Even as she shifts and sighs, I stare down at my reflection, at the angled sides of my crown.

“Crocodile,” she repeats, voice hard. “Did you see it? They’re serving crocodile.”

“I saw it, Tora. I saw it, and I know what it means.” My words are a growl, but Tora only leans back into her chair, sharp nails tapping again.

A pair of servants enter the gaping room. We’re in the royal dining hall, a lavish room with red satin walls and marble floors, a mix of red and violet and black. Scarlet curtains hang over the windows, hiding the bulky shields from view.

The servants, each carrying an overflowing tray of dishware, don’t acknowledge us. They move silently around the table, placing wrapped silverware to the left of each menu. When a young servant lays my silverware, he glances at me. It’s quick, almost unnoticeable, but I’m watching for it. And there, beneath his flimsy mask, stretched across his pronounced bones, pure hatred radiates from the boy.

I wonder what he’d do if he weren’t trapped. Would he hit me? Try to kill me?

If I were brave, I’d find a way to help him. I wish he knew I’m trapped too.

The boy turns away, back to the kitchen.

Tora jabs her elbow into my side, and I startle.

“What?” I snap.

“Listen. You can’t start anything with Malek tonight,” she says, eyes watering. “I know you want to, and believe me, I do too. But he’s scheming to take your throne. Don’t fall into whatever game he’s playing.”

“That girl will be put to death,” I say, whispering when I’d rather yell. “That’s not a game. She’s going to die for something we all know she didn’t do.”

“I’m just saying?—”

“You’re saying I should let him get away with it to protect my crown,” I interrupt. “That’s pathetic, Tora.”

Her eyes flicker to her lap. She wipes each eye, hard and fast, like she’s angry for crying. Pain slices through my stomach. I meant what I said, but I should have kept it to myself. Tora isn’t the enemy here.

“Tor—”

“It is pathetic,” she says, looking back at me. Her eyes are rimmed with red, dark makeup smudging her cheeks. “It is pathetic to let your brother get away with murder, but it is also your best option. I’ve thought about it all day. If Malek steals your throne…he’ll kill far more than one innocent.”

“Malek will never get the throne,” I snarl. “It’s mine , and his games aren’t going to change that.”

“But he wants it,” she says. Her voice falls low again. “And what Malek wants?—”

Tora cuts off as the door crashes against the wall. Malek strides into the room, as if he was listening for the perfect moment to enter. I tense, lip curling as he struts to the seat on my left. He grins and glances between me and Tora like we’re all playing the same game.

“Brother, sister,” he says, dropping into his seat. He knocks over the empty stein at his setting. “Why the glum faces?”

I relax, only slightly. At least he didn’t hear our conversation. The last thing I need is for Malek to think I am concerned he’ll steal my crown.

“Leave it alone, Malek,” Tora says, leaning across me to straighten his stein. She’s always been the buffer between me and Malek, but it worked better when we were kids. Now she’s several inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter with watered-down magic. If she tries to keep us apart, she’ll only end up hurt.

“Harrick, do you recall whether we’re doing combat or powered training tomorrow?” She keeps her voice airy, even manages a smile.

I lean back in my chair, ignoring Tora as she attempts to distract me. I can sense Malek’s taunting grin, his desperation for a fight. If I lunge now, no one will?—

The door opens again, this time softly, as Mother and Sorace enter the room. My cousin—second or third, I can’t remember—looks the same as he always does. Slicked black hair, upturned chin, and an overly pressed violet suit.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, glancing between us. His voice is clipped and proper, like he’s reading a prepared speech. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

My stomach clenches, and Tora touches my elbow. Images flicker through my mind, turning everything to mush. The red-haired servant, looking more shocked at the vial than anyone. Rune’s attempt to help, and the way she looked at me when I finally moved out of her way. Disgusted, as if I was a monster for stopping her. Malek’s knowing smile, his daring eyes. The life of an innocent. The death of thousands.

Mother calls for the first course of food, and I focus on the servants as they move around the table. I wonder if they are terrified to be so near Malek. They have to know one of their own was framed. They have to know Malek ruined her, simply because he could, and that he could ruin them too, if he wanted.

Aside from Sorace’s compliments on the broiled crocodile, his favorite , we eat in silence. I’m not hungry, but I gorge myself to keep from acting impulsively. It’s the only reason Malek doesn’t end up with my knife in his throat.

Once the servants clear the plates, Sorace pulls a stack of folded parchment from his coat pocket. I’m not surprised, but my dinner still presses against my throat. I should’ve known better than to overeat. Now I’m going to vomit before this conversation is through.

Sorace lays six parchments across the table, each one bearing the information of a different servant. Six women and girls stare up at me, their skills listed beneath their pictures. I’m not sure how, but I know she’s in the lineup before I see her.

Rune Ealde. Indebted servant. Currently assigned to Lady Saskia.

I reach for her profile, but Malek is too quick. He swipes all six off the table, flipping lazily through them.

“Oh, how delightful,” he croons. He pauses to inspect one of the girls’ photographs. “Are these the replacement options already?”

“Yes.” Sorace nods. “I apologize for my department’s error in judgment with 213. I assure you, the servant has been dealt with accordingly.”

I don’t point out that Sorace himself is responsible for selecting upper elite servants, or that he obviously knows the girl didn’t steal anything. Instead, I dig my fingers into the arms of my chair.

“I am simply relieved I caught the mistake before something worse occurred,” Malek says. He shudders, as though imagining all the terrible things he prevented. Like normalcy and peace.

“As we all are,” Sorace agrees. Then, he gives me a cruel smile. “Do not feel too terribly, Prince Harrick. Perhaps your brother can help strengthen your observational skills.”

The chair suddenly feels too flimsy, like I could crush it with my bare hands. Before I respond, Tora leans over me to peer at the parchments in Malek’s lap. Of course, he’s quick to shield the options from her view.

“Six options,” Tora says, ignoring Malek’s obvious provocation. “Is it not more narrowed than this?”

“I like this better,” Malek says. He tosses the first profile back onto the table. “I feel a bit like I’m picking a concubine.”

“Ew. Focus, Malek. No one wants to hear your vile comments,” Tora says. She falls back into her seat and grabs Malek’s discarded parchment. After a moment, she says, “This one has good experience.”

She tilts the profile toward me. I don’t look. My eyes are on the shielded windows behind Sorace and Mother. I imagine the sky is darkening, falling to night. We haven’t had a single earthquake today. This season is slowing to a close, and soon heavy floods will pour between the mountains. Savoa will become a different world, and yet, everything will be the same.

It is always the same.

“I choose this one,” Malek declares. He tosses the other profiles to the floor, even as Tora attempts to grab them. Then he snatches the one still in her hand, throwing it too. “Trust me, sister. We want 247.”

He plants his choice in the center of the table. My stomach bottoms out, because of course . Of course, he’s chosen her . Maybe he noticed I protected her in the event center. Or maybe I just have terrible luck.

“A criminal?” Tora asks with arched brows. “You want us to put a criminal with Lady Viana?”

“Well of course he does,” I say, snapping forward. I pull Rune’s profile off the table, as if doing it will protect her. I glance at her information. Her picture is outdated. She’s younger here, but much the same. Small and malnourished and withdrawn.

“Harrick—”

“No,” I say, cutting Tora off. “We are not going to sit here and pick another victim for Malek to torture. His first isn’t yet dead, and we’re already scouting his next plaything.”

“Harrick!” Mother shrieks, staring at me like I’m the monster. As if pointing out the treachery is somehow worse than committing it.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind having 247 as my plaything,” Malek says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Gross,” Sorace snorts, but he smiles. “If you’d like to up your standards, I know a guy with a pet sheep.”

“Stop,” Mother demands. Sorace shrinks back in his seat, but Malek ignores her. He’s grinning at Sorace, making vulgar gestures.

“Enough!” I scream.

I don’t realize I’ve shoved from my chair or that I’ve cast magic until Malek strikes the far wall. My vines wrap around his neck, holding him a foot from the ground. He flails against my magic, hands at his throat, legs kicking uselessly against the scarlet walls. I didn’t mean to attack Malek, but I don’t release him now. I clench my fingers, tightening the vines until his face turns as crimson as his suit.

Tora yells at me, but I don’t register what she’s saying. I don’t register anything beyond the surge of power in my bones. Malek slouches against the wall, his mouth gaping, not in a scream but in a useless gasp for breath.

I don’t fight my smile.

I squeeze again, only to suddenly grow dizzy. I try for a breath, but nothing comes. Again and again, until I realize Mother has stolen my air. I’m suffocating, and it feels like I’m somehow losing consciousness faster than Malek. I clench my fingers, but they drop as I stagger on my feet. My breath returns at the same moment Malek collapses to the ground. He sags against the wall, eyes slowly returning to focus.

He snarls at me, his skin regaining its natural color.

“That is enough!” Mother shouts. And in the same breath, Tora asks, “Are you okay?”

She appears in front of me, her right hand aimed toward Malek, as if she could possibly protect us.

“Tora, move !” I scream. With a flick of my wrist, I shoot magic against her chest. It’s not vines this time, but a gust of wind from the Wilds. She tumbles over the table and across the marble, only stopping when she strikes the window shields. Mother crouches at her side and barks for Sorace to fetch the guards.

Guilt prickles the edge of my consciousness, but there’s no time to stop. I twist back to Malek, hands raised and magic ready. I’m a second too late. Malek has already conjured a beast, a terrifying monstrosity with the body of a crocodile and the muscular limbs of a lion. It charges me, crashing through my half-formed vines, as if they’re nothing but dust.

The beast smashes against my torso, heavy paws slamming me to the ground. We slide nearly a foot across the marble with the hybrid’s weight settled over me. My breath sputters, oxygen disappearing in painful bursts. A sharp pain radiates through my skull and blurs my vision.

The hybrid’s claws bite through my shirt, tearing my skin and puncturing my ribs. I need to focus. If I can get myself centered, I can get out of this. A few vines is all I need to tie this creature and get it off me. But everything hurts and my vision is going black.

I hit my head hard .

Even as the world darkens, I hear Malek’s cackled laugh. I can imagine his grin, the excitement in those narrowed eyes. This is what he’s always wanted: a dead brother and a guaranteed throne.

With a snarled roar, Malek’s beast shoves off my chest, only to crash back against me. I hear cracking, snapping, my ribcage shattering against my organs. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. There’s only the crunch of bone, the warmth of blood splattering against my chin and out my mouth.

Black overtakes my vision until I can’t see or hear or feel anything at all.

I’m not sure how long my senses are gone, but they return in an abrupt snap. Everything, all at once. Breath and sound and the steady pulse of magic through my bones. Tora is screaming again, wailing, but at least she’s okay. Her sobs grow quiet, replaced by multiple guards pushing into the space around me. They shout orders and Mother’s voice filters between them.

I don’t try to get up. Even without Malek’s hybrid on my chest, I’m not sure I can move. My body might be shattered. It certainly feels that way. I’m sucking wet breaths through my lips, the taste of blood bitter on my tongue.

A healer kneels at my side and presses his hands against my ribcage. He frowns at what he finds, but he doesn’t tell me the damage. I can’t find the energy to ask.

“I’m putting you to sleep now,” he says. His voice is calm, almost hypnotic. “All will be better when you wake.”

I know he means my injuries, but I pretend he truly means all . That when I wake, I will be stronger, faster, smarter. When I wake, I will be the most fearsome caster, more powerful than the Architect ever was. They say I was born with more magic than any other descendant in Savoan history, and maybe when I wake, I will believe them.

“He is waking,” says a voice. It’s foggy and distant, like it’s coming from another world. “Quick. Fetch the Architect.”

A moan rumbles from my chest. Everything hurts. A sharp throb pulses against the back of my skull and it feels like my lungs aren’t working. My bones are worse. It’s like someone chipped them into a million pieces, only to sloppily reconnect them. I move my hands up my ribcage, groaning as the bones flex against my touch.

“Don’t, my prince,” the foggy voice says. “Leave it be.”

It takes three tries to open my eyes. Bright lights shine overhead, and the man holds another light in his hand. He hovers it above my face, tilting my chin with his fingers.

“Very good,” he says.

I have no idea how this could be good, let alone very good . I wince as he moves his hands over me, pulling at one eyelid, then the other. He promised I would wake better, but I’m far from it. Maybe Malek’s magic has infested my body like a disease, and the healer’s power isn’t working. Maybe this is how I die, shattered in the infirmary, each breath harder than the last.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask through a wheezy gasp.

“The Architect requested we postpone further treatment,” he says, still moving his hands over my body. “We will heal you soon, but we must wait until he arrives. I’ve already sent for him.”

“No,” I say. It sounds more like dust than my voice. “Don’t send for him. He’ll only?—”

“I will only what ?”

I close my eyes at the Architect’s voice. It is deep and menacing, despite his impossible age. The healer scampers from the room, his clicking shoes replaced by heavy footsteps. Even with my eyes shut, I recognize my father’s walk. Purposeful and slow, like a bloodthirsty predator, closing in for the kill. As a child, I did everything to resolve the Architect’s hatred of me. I trained hard, studied hard, practiced magic until my hands were burnt and raw. It was never enough. I am nothing more than a vessel for the Architect’s magic—my mind, to him, is a nuisance.

I open my eyes when he reaches the bedside. His clothes conceal his entire body and face, but more importantly, they hide the fact he’s dying. After countless cycles, the Architect’s human body is struggling to survive, even as he regularly gorges himself on excess magic. It’s kept him alive this long, but his time is running out. Unless he can get back to the Old World to beg his banisher for mercy, he will likely die before I do.

The Architect leans over me, face concealed but disgust prominent. His crown of weathered bones gleams from between the center of his red wolf mask.

“What will I do, my boy?” he asks. He remains still for several seconds before his hand finds my chin. He squeezes hard enough that he might add a broken bone to my collection.

“I only meant?—”

“Save your lies. Your mother told me of your squabble with Malek,” he says. He perches on the edge of my cot, and I groan at the jolt of movement. The Architect scoffs. “Picking a fight over such a trivial matter? Pathetic. But losing that fight? Unacceptable.”

I don’t have a response to that. He’s right, at least about the shame of losing.

“He framed a servant for murder. He’s going to have her killed,” I say, glaring at the Architect, hoping I come off more confident than I feel. “I will not be a king who allows the unjust abuse of my people!”

The Architect laughs. It’s a hollow sound that bubbles into my gut, making my entire body cold. I keep my eyes on him anyway and force my chin higher, despite the radiating pain.

“Malek must learn?—”

“No, you must learn!” he shouts. He presses his hand to my bare chest and pushes down, stealing a sharp gasp from my lungs. “You are to be king because you are powerful. Because you have more magic than any other descendant.

“So do not be confused, my boy! Your duty is to escape Savoa, not save it. The mortals are here to keep us alive, to grow our food, to hunt our grounds, to unearth our metals. You are not here for them. You are here to open that portal for me .” He leans closer, until I can feel his harsh breath through his mask. “I will not hear of this foolishness again. Do you understand?”

I grit my teeth, a growl locked at the peak of my throat.

“Do you understand?” he screams. He shoves his hand against my sternum, and a hideous croak breaks in my throat.

“Yes, sir,” I say. Without breath, my words are barely audible. But the Architect slowly lifts from my chest, straightening until he’s no longer over me.

“Good,” he says. He backs away from the cot and strides for the exit, only to stop at the door. His hand hovers over the metal handle as he looks at me. “I expect you to increase your training. If I hear you’ve lost to your brother again, I will not let them heal you.”

And then he’s gone. The ebony door slams behind him, only opening when the healers return. They press their hands against my chest and face, their magic seeping through my skin like boiling water.

As they work, I stare at the ceiling. I imagine Rune has been promoted to Viana’s handmaiden, and now, there’s nothing I can do to protect her. There never was, and I’d deluded myself into believing otherwise.

In moments like this, I wish I knew the extent of the Architect’s sickness, his vulnerability. If I did, maybe I’d get the nerve to kill him and take his role for myself—saving the very kingdom he’s determined to betray.