Illusion of Stars

Chapter Thirty

The lover’s box came from the Sanok Isles. The Lover’s Box had magic. What did that mean?

The rain slowed, then stopped, leaving the world glassy and clear, slick rocks shining like candles. We lit a fire and I crouched beside it, fed another bloody linen to its maw. It shriveled and sparked, a pair of hands curling in on itself.

Through the heat haze, Signey tucked the Lover’s Box away and used her knee to hold the bag as she pulled the strings tight.

The Lover’s Box.

Magic.

The Sanokes didn’t have magic, we couldn’t. We were nobodies, no more important than a grain of sand on a dance floor.

Still, I wanted to hold it, wanted to have it. The way it hummed in my hands, the way it made pieces of me sing… I would trade anything— anything —to feel it pressed against my cheek.

The fire dried my lips, made the blood race to my fingers, red and stinging.

I could rush Signey now, could tear her hair and gouge her eyes because I needed it. Needed, needed, needed—

I pressed a hand to my temple.

Stop. The Lover’s Box was a tool—a useful tool—and maybe I could use it to help find the weapon. That’s what I should focus on.

The weapon.

If I stole the box, could I use it to correspond with Lothgar? If I pretended to be Signey, could I get him to tell me what the weapon was?

I hadn’t been brave enough to poison the food since Erik discovered the ragwort, but he was still unconscious, fevered illusions spilling from his tent. Valerian should only make them a little drowsier than normal…

That night, I dumped the entire bottle into their skause.

Their snores echoed through the camp.

I changed into a fleeced cardigan and my nightgown, the fabric lighter, smoother than the heavy rustle of my traveling skirts, strapped the knife Erik had given me to my hip and crept outside.

Moonlight dribbled down the walls of the ravine like spilled milk, glinting off limpet shells and bones, the black pebble beach. Horses pawed the ground, tossed their manes. The river rushed.

I eased the flap of Signey’s tent and there she was, stretched out over her bedroll, one hand by her face, the other tucked under her pillow, lashes dusting her cheek.

I wanted to hate her, but she didn’t look like a villain when she was sleeping like this.

I grabbed her bag and hauled it out into the ravine, the scrape of leather on stone. Without the wind, without the howl, everything seemed so quiet, so still. Stars glittered overhead, bright and burning.

I dug through the bag until I found the metal chest, fit my makeshift key into the lock and—

“Isabel?”

I whirled, my hand going to the knife, and there was Erik, shirtless and bracing himself on the tent pole, his free hand thrown around his bandaged middle.

Shit. I hadn’t even noticed the illusions stop.

“Good reflexes,” he said, eyeing the knife.

I let my fingers fall from the hilt. “You shouldn’t be standing. Do you need something?”

A sheepish smile crossed his face. “I’m actually hungry.”

Double shit. I could drug him with s?ven, but he’d remember when he woke up, and it might be difficult to explain that. New plan. Feed Erik, get him back to bed, then use the Lover’s Box.

I glanced at Signey’s bag, spilling tunics and blankets, the strings pulled wide. I also needed to keep him away from that.

Far away from that.

I used the side of my foot to nudge it into a shadow. “Craving anything specific? I think I saw some of Signey’s dried fish.”

“Not her fish. They’re—” He grimaced. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never been able to stomach Signey’s fish.”

“Then what?”

Another sheepish smile. “Salted porridge with a lump of butter melting in the center?”

“That’s…very specific.” And would take far too long to cook. “What about cheese? Biscuits?”

He shivered, his eyes red-rimmed. “Do you know where they put my bag?” A glance at Signey’s. “Is that it?”

“Uh. That’s not your bag. Definitely not your bag. It’s fine. I’ll make it for you. You shouldn’t be standing, anyway. Weird salty porridge it is.”

Fire crackled and popped, embers glinting off sand and bone and empty shells. High above, seabirds soared in and out of nests. An eerie silence stretched through the ravine.

“About what happened,” Erik said. I’d brought him a knitted blanket to clutch around his shoulders, but he still sat shivering on a rock.

“I took the arrows out.”

He shook his head. “What happened before we were attacked.”

Oh. Buttercup. The panic attack. I poked the fire with a stick, sending a fountain of sparks into the sky. “I’ve been dealing with a lot.”

He pulled the blanket tighter. “I probably didn’t help by saddling you with Buttercup and letting the men play their pranks. But if you ever want to talk…I’m here.”

I bit my lip. Those dark and messy things churned, an angry sea where each wave threatened to capsize me. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk. I’m—”

I’m what? Broken? Alone?

Our legs brushed.

“Okay.” He glanced at the sky. “Well, then. The other thing I’ve been dying to know. Did I…Send anything when I was out?”

I shrugged. “A beach. A lake. Some reindeer.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

“Why? You worried?”

He scooted forward. “Do you want me to show you how to use that knife?”

I poked his chest. “Ha! You are worried!”

He glanced between my finger and my face. That lock of hair fell against his forehead, curling just above his brow. His eyes went feral. “You’re deflecting, Isabel.”

“I’m not deflecting.” I scooted back and stretched my legs. “I want to know what’s in your head. What were you so afraid of casting?”

“I’m not afraid of anything. You…”

“Are also not afraid of anything?”

He laughed. “If only. You pretend to be fearless but…” he caught my hand, “I see you.”

My breath hitched, and his thumb grazed my knuckle. His gaze didn’t leave mine, so fervent, so fierce.

Smoke chugged toward the stars. I licked my lips, smoky and bright like ice. “Sloppy trees.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. He let my hand go. “What?”

“Besides the beach, the lake, and the reindeer, you also cast some very sloppy trees.”

“What even is a sloppy tree?”

“They had these trunks that twisted like wet hair and branches that bulged like…slugs? I’ve never seen a real tree, but there’s no way they look like—”

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” Something mischievous flickered in his eyes and suddenly, they surrounded us, a forest of shadowed pine that scraped the stars. Bark curled off their trunks and needles fanned like dainty swords.

I tipped my head back and tried to lean the crown against one of them. “I mean, I’ve seen your trees, and I’ve seen pictures of them. But they don’t grow in the Sanokes.”

The tree shivered, then reappeared two inches closer.

“Thanks.”

“Of course. But you’ve never visited Larland? Or Gormark? I thought everyone outside Volgaard traveled.”

“Before this? Karlsborn Castle was the farthest I’ve ever been from home.”

From the corner of my eye, I caught him stretch and wince when the stitches pulled. “So where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Home.”

Oh. Oh . I blew at a branch of pine needles. They quivered like feather fluff. “It’s a tiny town off the coast of…well, you don’t know it, but Hjern. It’s a tiny town.” The dark wood door, the way honey light spilled over the beach. I sat up. “What about yours?”

“Mine,” he said with a rough laugh. His expression wavered.

I studied him, the set of his jaw, the way shadows danced along the planes of his face. “You kept casting a woman. She was…pregnant.” If Erik had been a tributary, that must be the family he’d been sent to live with.

He ran a hand through his hair. “She’s no one. Not important.”

I arched a brow. “And you call me a bad liar.”

The forest collapsed and we were back in the ravine. The river hissed and Kaspar’s snores drifted from his tent. Fire crackled, so bright, so hot.

“Okay. She was my mother.”

“But…she called you a mistake?” Why would his mother have called him a mistake?

“Because I am,” he said after a moment. “A mistake.”

That didn’t make sense. He was the general’s son. Lothgar’s second, better at reykr than—

“I’m a bastard,” he added, his expression guarded. “My mother wasn’t Lothgar’s wife; she is— was— from Kaldr-Flodi.”

Was . “I’m sorry.”

He gave a hard laugh and leaned back. “I’m not. She was a…well, she wasn’t the type of person you wanted to know. They say she was different before Herleif married her and made her queen, but I never saw that side of her.”

Before Herleif made her queen. “So you’re a prince? I mean, if your stepfather is the king of Volgaard, that would make you a prince. Right?”

“A prince? No. Gus and Henny are princes. I’m— ” He swallowed. “Honestly? I spent a long time wondering if I even mattered.”

His mother’s words came back to me, the red of her lips, the twist of her mouth.

Then send him back.

We’ll be rid of him before Ylír.

This is a boy, he is a mistake.

But—

“You’re the best person at reykr. Of course you mattered.”

He barred his teeth. “You think my parents cared about me ? You think they wanted me ? They passed me back and forth like I was some sort of disease. Children born between houses are almost always dadig, ordinary, and I couldn’t do anything with reykr until I was fourteen. So yes, I wondered if I mattered. Not because of magic, but because…because…” He clenched his hands. “You know your stitches hurt like a bitch.”

“I have white willow.” I pushed myself up and returned with a sliver of bark. “Chew until it becomes soft. Should take the edge off.”

But instead of taking it, he fisted it in his hand and kept his gaze on the snap and crackle of the fire. Was he thinking about his mother?

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yes.” No . He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just tell me something? About you, the Sanokes. I don’t care.”

“Why?”

“Because your stitches—”

“Hurt. Yeah, I know.” A pause. The char of smoke filled the night. I cocked a brow. “I thought you said I couldn’t hurt you.”

He grimaced. “I lied. You can definitely hurt me.”

“Mmm, two lies in one night. I must be rubbing off on you.”

“Not rubbing off on me.” He shot me a teasing glance. “I’m just better at it.”

“Go back to bed.”

He scooted toward me. “Tell me a bedtime story.”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then I’m not going back to bed. I’m going to sit here all night, Sending trees and keeping guard over that specific bag.” He nodded to a pack half open and shoved against a pile of rocks. Firelight gave the leather a reddish hue and glinted off the silver buckles.

“You’re pathetic. That’s the food bag.” I’d been sure to shove Signey’s deep, deep into the shadows. But— “Speaking of, it’s weird you’re making me cook for you. I thought I’d been banned.”

“You wouldn’t poison me. You like my tattoo too much.” He winked and leaned onto his palm. “Now about that bedtime story.”

Maybe it was the wind or the cold or the fact that it was so late, but I found myself slowing, easing into the moment the same way a dormouse eases into the grooves of a winter-warm house. I knew I needed to send the message, to return Signey’s bag, but the porridge was still cooking, and I could wait just a few minutes.

And maybe, just maybe, there was a small part of me that wanted to stay.

A shooting star streaked past, then another.

“Okay. So there’s a story,” I said, squinting up. “Aalto and Vega. He was from the sea, she from the sky. Some say she was a sorceress, a purveyor of spells and oddities. Others claim she was a spirit, the daughter of ash and air, one of those immortal things that sit on the seams of reality. They met on the horizon, Aalto with his fishing net and Vega with sunlight braided into her hair. They talked, they kissed, they fell in love.

“‘Run away with me,’ he said one night as the ocean tangled around their legs like a sheet. He smoothed a lock off her forehead. ‘Be mine.’

“In some versions, she tells him she needs to wait until after the summer solstice, until those few days when the world grows balmy and sweet, until the nights are short, and her father has his face to the stars. In others, she says she needs to return home to gather holed stones and secret spells. In all versions, she tells him, ‘Meet me here in three days. I’ll find you.’

“But when Vega’s father found out, he stole Aalto away and locked him in a tower that teetered on the edge of infinity. He told her a fisherman wasn’t good enough for his daughter. He told her she’d never see him again.”

“Interesting. And Vega found him?”

“She tore apart the sky. Pulled down the stars and dropped them into the buckets of the sea.”

Another shooting star cut through the night—a flash, there then gone. The world had dropped to a chill, the chap cutting against our cheeks, our bones.

I tugged my cardigan around my shoulders, the cream wool soft against my skin, and squinted up. “I remember looking at the stars after my father left, wondering what it would be like to matter so much that someone would tear down the sky.” A stick popped. “So yeah…I’ve wondered that, too.”

Erik cocked his head and studied me like I was a puzzle. “Your father left?”

I pressed the tip of my pinky into a pit of a rock. “It’s fine. I’m over it.”

His eyes darkened. “You’re not a good liar, Isabel.”

I pulled my hand away from the rock and thumped him on the chest. “I’m a great liar. Fooling you into thinking I’m a bad one is my best lie yet.”

“Will you tell me what happened? With your father.”

I did my best to imitate his throaty chuckle. “So many personal questions.”

“Well…maybe I want to know you, too.” The admission, like a blink, a blush, a flower blooming open, the petals furling wide. And there he was—strong jaw, stormy mouth, the lock of hair that was almost a curl. He ran a hand through it, brushing it back from his forehead, and watched with careful eyes.

My heart kicked. “My father. Okay. He—” Lied? Cheated? How do you say he ripped apart my world? I finally settled on, “Had another family.”

Erik waited for me to elaborate.

“He kept them in a shack on the beach,” I said. “Sent them money, stayed the night. They lived right there in Hjern, and no one knew. She was the local witch, and he pretended not to notice, but they had two babies, little boys, ages one and three. When Mama found out, she screamed and screamed and screamed at him to choose: his wife or his whore. He chose them. Said he’d choose them every time.”

Those words had burned my ears, scalded my skull, and banged around my brain until I marched to that shack on the beach, thirteen years old, and I pounded on that salt-stained door. Pounded and pounded until Papa pulled it open, shirt untucked, a baby in each arm.

“Are we not enough for you?” I’d cried. “Are Mama and I not enough for you?”

He didn’t say anything— wouldn’t say anything. Instead, he coolly and calmly shut the door. He’d said over and over he didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth—the cruel and ugly truth: we weren’t enough.

We would never be enough.

“It hurt,” I said. “The babies, the door. But I think the worst part was knowing he was happy. And I realize that makes me a terrible, terrible person, but I had to let go of the life I thought I’d get. Had to watch him give away the love I wish I had because I wasn’t enough. People always think you need a body to grieve someone, but you don’t. I missed him, and he was standing right in front of me.” I opened my hands, closed them, wiped my palms on my skirts. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s just—I don’t know.” The fire snapped, sparks scattering like grains on the wind. “They really passed you back and forth?”

Erik swallowed. “I mean, they’d try to convince the other parent to keep me. Lothgar once sent me with a dozen racing stallions and three blood rubies. My mother kept the rubies and returned me. No one wants a child who’s dadig. And…I think I reminded them of their mistakes.”

Shadows raced up the wall, skittering wide like the wings of a sea eagle.

A bastard boy, an unwanted child, the second-in-command, desperate to prove himself, hungry to be seen. But that didn’t explain—

“You said you picked your emblem yourself. Why cornflowers, of all things?”

He ran a thumb over his nubbed finger. “No more secrets?”

No more secrets. A dangerous thing to promise when I was here to spy, to steal, to bring his country to its knees.

But—

Maybe I want to know you, too.

“No more secrets.”

Erik shivered and pulled the blanket tighter. “Because they’re weeds. Beautiful, stubborn weeds.” Our eyes caught and this time, he didn’t hide it—the hurt, the pain, the longing. “Maybe you’re a cornflower, too.”