Interlude
Spring three years ago. Royal Woods.
Small flares of my spell light the leaves as I tap the rare tree. “This is the one, Akilah. This is a rare taffy tree.”
She groans from the ground. “So we’re not just stealing syrup, we’re stealing precious royal syrup.”
“Look at those stains,” I whisper, easing the spile. “Years of taffy that never got to exist.”
A voice below: rich, dry. “You love taffy more than life?”
Akilah yelps.
I slip, catch a shoulder with one boot, and spring back to the branch. “Arcane Sovereign,” I gasp, clutching bark.
I peer down and nearly fall again. He sits a dark horse like he was poured into the saddle: cloak immaculate, lips pressed. He reaches up and flicks my nose with one gloved finger, not amused by the fresh boot print on his shoulder-cloak.
“Maskios,” I say, breathless. “We meet again.”
“Calix Solin,” he reminds me.
“Sure, Maskios.”
A glare.
I hook a finger in one of his braids and breathe in the faint shimmer of mask-scent. “Why hide your face?”
“I have trouble with unwanted attention,” he says blandly. “Magnetic beauty. A curse.”
I drop the braid, laughing, then clock the curved sticks slung by the saddles. “You play drakopagon?”
He scoffs.
“Come closer. Three steps,” I say. “I’ll drop on your horse. Ahead or behind?”
He mutters, taps my rump with the hook of his drakopala, and nods to his aklo. “Give him your horse. Wait on the road.”
I tumble to the spare saddle, syrup-sticky fingers on the reins. He eyes my hands. A lazy flick; wind wraps my skin, polishing me clean.
“What a waste,” I sigh, lifting a knuckle under his nose. “Should’ve been licked.”
He shuts his eyes and heels the horse on.
The drakopagon pitch is a trampled meadow with two hoops and six young men riding hard, whooping as they sling a tied bundle toward the goal.
A small, ragged sound knifes through the noise.
Meowling.
Calix and I track it to the bundle.
My stomach drops. I kick through the low fence. “Give me the cat.”
“Off the pitch,” one growls. “It’s ours.”
“You’re torturing it.”
“Adds stakes,” another shrugs. “Better practice.”
“How about we tie you up and throw you?” I mutter.
Calix ranges beside me, voice cool iron. “Release the cat. Now.”
They snicker. “Who are you, king?”
“Who are you?” I snap. “Rich bullies with nothing better to do?”
A boy swings his stick for my face. I duck, teeth ringing. “Enough,” I say, low.
I wheel my horse, palm a quick sleeping charm, simplex and soft, and flick it at the rider holding the bundle. He slumps; the cat drops; I scoop it to my chest.
Spells crack the air. Hot, ugly.
“Woods, now,” Calix clips, wheeling into them, knocking blasts aside with shears of wind. I drive for the trees, heart in my throat. A lance of light slices his sleeve. I taste metal.
I reach the clearing first and pace, listening to the leaves. Hoofbeats. He comes on a hush of wind, upright and composed, his eyes sparking as they find me.
He reins in hard.
I show him the sling I’ve knotted from my sash, the cat pressed to my ribs, panting.
I nudge his boot from a stirrup, lean across, and settle the strap around his neck so the sling lies against his chest. Close like that, his wintergreen mask-scent skims my mouth.
“There, there,” I tell the cat. “Maskios has money. He’ll take care of you. ”
I sit back. “Why the stare?”
“That was reckless,” he says, voice low. “You risked your life. For a cat.”
“They would’ve killed it.”
“You can’t save everyone.”
“I can try.”
“Sometimes you shouldn’t. Sometimes you make hard choices. Not everything can be saved.”
“How defeatist.”
“They would have spelled you from the saddle. You could have been trampled. Killed. And in the end it wouldn’t matter.” His gaze holds mine; the blow is precise, almost gentle. “You’re just par-linea.”
The words cut clean. My horse shifts under me; something raw opens.
“Just par-linea,” I repeat.
“That’s the truth.”
Leaves whisper. The cat mews against his sternum.
I swing down, hands unsteady, and pass him my reins.
I don’t meet his eyes.
As soon as the leather leaves my fingers, I bow my head.
And I walk away.