Chapter 6 #2
Cases line the back of the stage, their glass fronts warped and rippled.
Each holds what looks like relics of past performances—faded masks, hoops blackened and charred at the edges, costumes reduced to delicate scraps of silk now pinned in place like butterflies in a display box.
Each is labeled like an artifact in a forgotten museum.
An elaborate open tent rises across from us, terra-cotta and ruby silks draped to shade the section of ornate seats elevated on a crescent-shaped dais made of gleaming black stone.
Two women recline at its center, unmistakably regal.
Flame-shaped crowns perch on their heads, all sharp points and scarlet glint.
Their robes shimmer like liquid copper, and thick, dramatic eye makeup fans out toward their temples in wings of glittering fire.
People fan out around them, dressed in robes and jewels with flame-shaped collars and pinched faces.
It feels ceremonial. It feels claustrophobic. It feels exactly like the kind of place where people get publicly executed.
Above, birds wheel through the sky, their cries carrying faintly. My gaze follows them up, then out until it catches on the horizon and the nothingness of endless dunes.
The beat of drums vibrates the platform beneath our feet as more guards arrive, weapons drawn, flanking us in a semicircle of steel. We’re forced to the center, directly under the relentless eye of the sun. Giant brass braziers blaze along the edge of the stage, flames licking skyward.
Declan stands beside me, tall but extremely silent. Like he thinks if he’s quiet and grumpy, this will all resolve itself. Maybe the guards will be so overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of his shoulders that they’ll just let us go.
He is insufferable. Meeting him in person is every bit the disaster I knew it would be.
“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” I grumble.
I clear my throat and step forward. The guards respond instantly, swords lifting, the line they hold behind us inching closer.
“Hi,” I say brightly, even as panic sparks beneath my skin like static on a sweater. “So…slight misunderstanding.”
“State your names,” one of the crowned women snaps. Her voice cracks through the heat like a whip as she straightens her shoulders and cranes her long neck.
I glance at Declan, who remains frustratingly silent. He’s calm, cool, and collected. A statue with high cheekbones and the emotional range of granite.
“I’m Amanda,” I say, voice catching. “This is Declan. We’re not spies.”
“Do tell me and my dear queen sister who you are and what you are doing in our great kingdom,” the second crowned woman demands. She’s younger than the first, her coal-black hair piled high beneath a crown that juts out like rising flames.
“We’re travelers.” There’s a knot in my throat, and I start cycling through affirmations like radio stations. I am calm. I am grounded. I am definitely not about to die.
“My sister and I are of the same mind,” the first resumes, brushing her corn silk curls from deep-umber shoulders. “You have not, however, told us what you are doing within the bounds of our Kingdom of Wands.”
“That is a good question.” I draw out each syllable while turning to glare at Declan in hopes of lighting him on fire.
“We’re passing through,” he says. “If there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way.”
Relief flickers through me. He’s finally saying something, finally doing something. Then he takes a step toward the ramp, and the guards lunge forward in unison. The flames in the braziers encircling the stage flare. The stifling heat cinches around my chest.
The dark-haired queen fixes him with a narrowed gaze. “Members of the masked guard from the Kingdom of Cups also claimed they were not spies when they crossed into our lands. Do you wish to know their fate?”
“I think I can infer,” Declan says evenly.
The flames crack. The wind hisses.
“They are dead. Burned at the stake. That is what my sister and I do to spies.”
“Understood.” Declan lifts his hands, a calculated gesture of surrender, but his voice never loses its cool edge.
“But we are not spies. We are travelers, unarmed, caught in circumstances beyond our control. I believe there’s an opportunity here to turn a chance encounter into something mutually beneficial.
My companion and I have skills, resources, knowledge—”
I elbow him, and shoot him a warning look, equal parts panic and please-shut-up-before-you-overpromise-and-get-us-killed.
The queens shift, the smallest flicker of intrigue.
Declan presses forward, sensing an opening. “We would be honored to put them to use in service of your kingdom. My family has built alliances across continents—mergers, rescues, profitable turnarounds. I can recognize an opportunity when it appears.”
The dark-haired queen arches one brow and lifts her pointed chin, bidding him to continue.
“As I’m sure you both do as well,” Declan adds smoothly. “This is a chance to strengthen your rule, to take some weight off your shoulders. I imagine a kingdom like this must be overwhelming for two women to manage alone.”
The shift is immediate. The crowd tenses. I flinch, every nerve on edge. Somewhere behind me, a guard sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Declan stiffens, then pushes forward, words tumbling out faster.
“That—uh—that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it’s overwhelming because you’re women.
I only meant ruling an entire kingdom is difficult for anyone.
The fact that you’ve managed it so well is proof of your strength, not a criticism of it. ”
The queens’ expressions remain stony.
Declan swallows, his tone softening as if he can easily fix what he just damaged. “Any man would have broken under half the weight you carry.”
A nod from the golden-haired queen summons Dav forward, sword flashing. The flat of the blade presses to Declan’s throat, not drawing blood but making his next swallow audible.
This is exactly what Declan did in Ember when I tried to walk out on our date. He pivoted the moment his charm started to slip. But this is life-and-death, and no amount of smooth confidence is going to save him from two queens who look ready to order him to death.
Think, Amanda. Think.
“No one listens unless it sparkles,” I mutter. My stomach flips. “I’m a story witch!” I blurt. “And I—I apologize for speaking out of turn.”
I attempt a curtsy, but it comes out more like an unbalanced lunge.
There’s a beat of stunned silence. I brace for impact. Any second now, I expect the guards to seize me, swords drawn. For the queens to shout Off with her head!
Instead, the queen with golden hair arches one perfectly painted brow. “Continue.”
“I, uh, I use the magicks all around us to…channel tales,” I begin, every bit more word-salad-y than the last. “It’s, um, emotionally charged performance art that is…spiritually guided.”
Sweat slides down my back as I wait for approval or a death sentence.
Actually, now that I think about it, that might be something: Divine improv. That’s a brand idea, isn’t it? I could work that into my online course offerings.
“And your partner?” the other queen asks, flicking two fingers toward Declan, who, for the first time, has the sense to look genuinely uncomfortable. Probably because of the broadsword pressed to his throat.
“He’s—he’s my brooding costar,” I say quickly. “My muse. My…bodyguard. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s very dramatic.”
Slowly, Declan slides his gaze to me, eyes filled with disbelief and the kind of murderous calm I assume men like him employ before launching a hostile takeover.
I smile sweetly at the queens. “We’re part of a sacred act. Art. Performance. Cosmic storytelling.”
The golden-haired queen leans forward. A slow, delighted smile curves her lips. “Then perform, you will. Tonight. Before my sister, me, and our esteemed court.”
“Oh, no. We couldn’t possibly interrupt whatever beautiful, er, situation you have planned.
” I sputter, shaking my head so hard hair whips my neck.
My hands flap wildly as I gesture to the stage, the guards, the silent crowd watching.
“We’re happy to just watch. Or leave! Honestly, leaving sounds great.
” I force a laugh that comes out high and unhinged.
“If you could point us to the nearest, uh, bus stop? Or crossroads? Maybe fiery interdimensional portal?”
A soft wave of laughter rises from the crowd, amused and tinkling like wind chimes in the sun. They think I’m joking.
I very much am not.
“Seriously,” I say, pushing through the panic rising in my throat, “we can just be on our way. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“We would,” interrupts a sharp voice from stage left.
A woman steps forward, draped in layered orange silks. Her face is bare, save for a slash of red paint across her eyes.
“You’ll perform at tonight’s Festival of Flame as the queens have ordered,” she says, already turning on her heel.
Dav removes the blade from Declan’s throat with a grunt and shoves him toward the wooden ramp at the side of the stage. The guards close in without a word, boxing us in on all sides. I glance at Declan, who’s too busy brooding to be remotely helpful, and then follow. What other choice do I have?
The air behind the stage shimmers with heat. Gold draperies hang from the rafters, threaded through with bronze chains. Copper lanterns line the narrow corridor, their flames captured behind glass etched with symbols. The scent of smoke and sandalwood clings to everything, heavy and sweet.
Tarek approaches sheepishly and holds out my purse. “Apologies.”
Before I can answer, the woman in charge flicks her wrist, and the guards scatter. Only Dav lingers.
“I don’t like the look of this one,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward Declan.
The woman doesn’t even turn. “It’s a good thing I have yet to consult you.”
He bristles, opens his mouth to speak, but she steps toward him.
“More to say, guard?”
“No, that is all.” Dav falters and bows his head slightly. “Apologies, Player.”
He turns to leave, slamming his shoulder into Declan on the way out. Declan—an immovable wall of muscle wrapped in sweat-slick heat—doesn’t even blink.
“Enjoy your last sunset,” Dav sneers.
Declan mutters something under his breath, jaw flexing, but falls silent when the Player pivots toward us, her tawny gaze raking over every inch.
“You’ll perform tonight,” she says. “Or else.”
“Then we’ll perform,” I say. “If that’s what keeps us alive.”
Declan folds his arms across his chest. “You’re certain this is the right move?”
“No,” I admit. “But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
He dips his chin, brow furrowed as if there’s another option we’re not seeing.
“You tried to negotiate with the queens and get us out of this. It didn’t work. So now we fake it.”
He nods slowly. “We fake it.”
The Player watches us, a slow smile unfurling across her pale face like smoke. “The two of you shall fit right in. Everyone here knows how to lie pretty.”