CHAPTER 3 ALEK
ALEK
I’m no stranger to being woken by nightmares.
In the past, the visions that haunted my dreams were either my sister or my mother being torn apart on a battlefield.
A monster summoned by magic would swoop down from the sky, fangs and claws ripping into fragile skin, tearing them limb from limb, blood spraying in an arc to coat the faces of nearby soldiers.
The nightmares are a little ridiculous. My sister didn’t even die that way. She died during an attack on King Grey, and an arrow pierced her heart.
Unfortunately, my dreams— my nightmares— don’t seem to care about accuracy.
My mother truly was torn apart by a monster on the other side of the border, and my thoughts are all too happy to connect their deaths in my mind.
More than once I’ve woken in a cold sweat after watching them die together.
The monsters in my dreams shift and change from night to night, taking on scales or feathers or horns— or all three at once— but they’re always awful.
But this morning when a nightmare awakens me, it’s not my sister or my mother being ripped to pieces by taloned hands.
It’s Callyn.
I wake panting, sweat soaking the fine linen sheets on my bed. Summer heat fills the room, and the bright sunlight blazing through the window tells me it must be midmorning.
I run a hand across my face, and it comes away damp. I blindly reach for the pull cord beside my bed and give it a jerk. Somewhere, a chime rings distantly.
I shouldn’t be dreaming about her. If my sleeping thoughts insist on showing me Callyn, the nightmares should be visions of her controlling the monster. Not being attacked by it.
Because she lied. She betrayed me. With her magic.
But she also saved me.
I press both hands into my face, rubbing at my eyes until I see stars. Until it hurts.
With a gasp, I jerk my hands down, and I give the cord another furious yank.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her anyway.
She’s no better than the king— and she’s likely gone from the palace by now, just like he is.
Grey left weeks ago, and my reports say his soldiers aren’t far behind.
No scraver attacks have been reported in Syhl Shallow.
The king’s magic is gone— and Callyn’s should be, too.
She’s a danger to the queen, and she’s a danger to the princess, so I gave her an ultimatum.
I told her to leave.
A twinge of regret flares in my chest.
Ugh. I press my fingertips into my eyes again. The room is so silent it hurts. I’m always alone, but right now, this solitude seems to have claws. I’m pressing on my eyeballs so hard that starbursts flare in my darkened vision.
“My lord?”
I startle so roughly I nearly fall out of bed. My arm knocks a bottle off my side table, and it crashes to the floor, shattering. The sound of glass skittering over the tile echoes against the walls, making my head pound immediately.
A footman stands in the doorway, unbothered.
This kind of morning is not what anyone on my staff would call uncommon.
“Breakfast,” I say roughly.
“Yes, my lord.” He pauses. “I’ll send a maid to tidy the mess.”
Tidy. As if I’ve absently left out a pair of trousers instead of scattering shards of glass everywhere.
Whatever. They’re paid for discretion, so I don’t mind if they extend it to me.
A scullery maid arrives with a broom and dustpan, followed by another servant bearing a platter of poached eggs and flaky biscuits lined with jam.
I gesture to the table in the corner, then throw back my blankets.
Cautious of the broken glass, I make my way across the room, grateful for the distraction.
But as I pick at the food, I can’t help but think of Callyn again.
We met in her bakery, and I was charmed by her independence as swiftly as I was charmed by her food. I don’t think I ever told her that.
Maybe I should have.
The thought comes unbidden— and unwelcome.
That whole time, she had magic. She had magic, and she hid it.
The same kind of magic that killed my family. The same kind of magic that killed her family. I don’t know how she could— I don’t know how— I don’t know why she would—
I slam the fork down, and this time I nearly break the plate. I push it away from me. My heart is pounding, and I don’t know if it’s anger or fear.
Anger feels more worthy, but I’m worried it’s the latter. I think of my dream, and for a flicker of time, I imagine Callyn controlling those creatures, and I shudder. Betrayal lodges in my heart like a hot coal trapped behind the grate of the hearth.
I feel like such a fool. Her power surely comes from that pendant she wears around her neck. All this time, and I believed it was a ward against magic— not the other way around.
Another footman appears in my doorway. “Master Martyyn has delivered several messages this morning, my lord. He stated that you may wish to select the fabrics personally.”
I look up in surprise. Martyyn is my personal secretary, and to anyone outside my House, he’s responsible for organizing any missives regarding the shipment of fabrics and textiles.
He also secretly handles any private messages arriving from the Truthbringers.
You may wish to select the fabrics personally is a code we’ve used before, indicating he’s received such a message.
I haven’t heard that phrase in months. After the king and queen were attacked, the Truthbringers were fractured, splitting into factions: those who supported her position on the throne.
And those who didn’t.
I hold out a hand to the servant. “I’ll review them now.”
Once he’s gone, I waste no time. The letter on the top of the pile is cream- colored parchment, sealed with black-and-green wax, which is reliable because it’s impossible to remelt without losing the telltale swirls that reveal whether or not a message has been tampered with.
The wax has been stamped with the Truthbringer seal.
I lift my knife and slice it open.
Lord Alek,
We’re pleased to report that Father has gone home for the summer season.
Unfortunately, recent events have led many of us to wonder whether the estate would be better off if Mother were gone, too.
After gathering our best silver, I have discovered a way to ensure success for our family, and it is only a matter of time before everyone is safe.
There are those who may be opposed, but I have always felt that the end justifies the means. Don’t you agree?
As always, your support would be appreciated.
You know how to reach me.
Karyl
Father and Mother are code words for King Grey and Queen Lia Mara, but I haven’t received a message like this in months.
For an instant, I wonder if the letter is a forgery.
I haven’t heard from Lady Karyl since she proved to be working against me, when she assisted in trapping the queen.
Karyl isn’t her real name, of course, but neither is Lady Clarinas, the name she went by when she worked in the palace as little Princess Sinna’s governess.
She was supposed to be a spy for me. But someone else won her loyalty, clearly.
Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve heard from her that I assumed she was killed in Briarlock during the attack on the king and queen.
I read the letter again.
Recent events have led many of us to wonder whether the estate would be better off if Mother were gone, too.
Since I know the code, this letter is about as subtle as a sledgehammer. The king is gone, yet they still want to get rid of the queen.
If they want my help for that, they won’t be getting it.
After gathering our best silver.
She’s referring to the Iishellasan steel they were collecting before they battled the king in Briarlock. I wonder how much they have left . . . and what she intends to do with it.
I set down the letter and take a sip of my tea.
The next note is also sealed with black-and-green wax, and the parchment is slightly crumpled and dirty, as if it changed hands many times— or perhaps it was handled by someone who was a bit dirty himself. No Truthbringer sigil appears on this one, but then I don’t expect it.
I flick my knife against the seal. This letter is written in Emberish, the handwriting barely more than scrawl— typical for a soldier in the King’s Army on the other side of the border.
King Grey has arrived at Ironrose Castle.
His first order was that all remaining soldiers in Syhl Shallow depart at once, to be stationed in Emberfall.
He has given no further directives, but it’s known that he was attacked on your soil.
Tensions are high, and there are many who question whether we will return to war— and it seems there are many who would like the chance to finish what began four years ago.
I do not have direct access to the king, but I am close to those who do.
I await your orders.
This letter is not signed, but it doesn’t need to be.
I know who my spies are. I pay dearly for their loyalty.
But my eyes linger on the word war, and I think of my mother. I think of my sister.
I think of Callyn.
Then I glance at that first letter, the one implying a threat against the queen.
Perhaps a visit to the palace is in order. I need to know what I’m dealing with.
I ignore the thump in my heart that reminds me Callyn is gone.
I ignore the pit in my stomach that worries she’s not.
My attendant reappears, refilling my tea and adding a lump of sugar. I casually fold the letters and set them on the table.
“Will you need anything else, my lord?”
“Have my carriage brought up. I need to visit the Crystal Palace this morning.” As soon as I say the words, I change my mind.
Since the scraver attack, riding in a carriage is torturous.
Being in a closed vehicle, where I can’t see the sky, suddenly makes me feel too vulnerable. I shudder without meaning to.
“No,” I say sharply. “Have my horse saddled instead. I’ll ride.”
She bobs a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”