Chapter 2
SPOKEN FOR
LEILANI
I REEL BACK FROM the Watchers, searching for an escape path.
Swathed in thick white cloaks, with a staring silver oculus emblazoned on their backs, my father’s trusted henchmen, chosen as much for their stature as their loyalty to the Throne, are a formidable sight.
A dozen of them now cloud the horizon, looming towards me like an ominous bank of fog.
Elvi grasps my hands. ‘Thank the Sister, you’re safe. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. No one knew where you were.’
Several of the Watchers flinch. Few will risk touching me unless ordered to, but Elvi has served as my liegemaid since she came to the Crystal City as a girl, her family driven from the higher territories by the tainted air and plummeting temperatures. She knows touching me doesn’t bring bad luck.
She’s searching my face. Few look so long.
Aside from my mother and Izarius, Elvi is the only other person who’s never shrunk from me, or side-eyed me like an aberration.
In public, I wear a full veil and trailing sleeves to conceal my strangeness, but in the privacy of my rooms, when I dispense with such armour, Elvi hardly seems to notice the opal hair and lilac eyes, the muted shimmer of my silver skin.
Even my brand, the seven-pointed Seer Star on my right wrist, doesn’t faze her.
I’ve never once had to worry about keeping it covered in front of her.
Elvi has never looked away, but she’s also never stared. Not till now.
As the initial shock at discovering me dissipates, thin eyebrows wing upwards as Elvi registers my borrowed garb, the hefty pack slung over my shoulders. Understanding dawns in her eyes.
I was never lost. Never stolen away. I was running. And she’s just ruined my chances of escape.
Tears prick again as I look to the city wall, to the hills and mountains beyond.
So close.
Elvi sees my tears. She’s mouthing an apology the same instant I decide to flee.
Clenching my teeth and tightening my grip on my pack, I barge through the cluster of Meissans still loosely gathered around me and sprint for the back streets.
If I can lose the Watchers in that cobbled warren, if I can cross the wall before they alert the guards, if the horse is ready and waiting…
there’s still a chance I can get out. I keep my head down, ignoring the gruff shouts for me to halt.
My slippers skid across the frosted stones, their narrow points crushing my toes, but I pump my arms and don’t look back.
Bootsteps thudding behind me, I weave through the deserted, twisting lanes, trying to remember the various paths to the wall I’ve traced so often on my stolen maps.
My breaths come sharp as I take the next corner, a dull ache radiating my ribs where the bearded man struck me.
I lift my gaze, searching for the end of the road – a heartening glimpse of the wall.
Another few turns and I should reach it.
But it’s a dead end. I wheel around to retrace my steps, correct my mistake, but the bootsteps thunder louder.
When the Watchers appear, Elvi is chasing behind them. Her face stricken as they form a circle around me, pressing in like the boned gowns I’m forced to wear for state occasions.
My stomach drops. I’m cornered.
Several of the Watchers eye my right arm, as if searching for my brand beneath my cloak.
Fists curling around their weapon belts, they’re careful not to get too close.
But one steps forwards. Saros Bidelion, my father’s faithful guard dog.
Older than the rest, his thinning silver hair is tightly braided, his nose crooked.
He leers and sends a white flare into the sky – no doubt a signal to the palace they’ve found me.
‘We’re to escort you to the Sanctuary on your father’s orders, Princess. Since you’re clearly unwell.’
Whenever I displease my father, I’m pronounced unwell. I’ve been a very sickly child.
Saros nods to the other lackeys, and a pair of guards inch closer, grimacing as they seize my elbows. I shrink back, but I’ve nowhere left to run.
‘And place her in irons.’ Saros eyes my right arm meaningfully, reminding everyone that I’m dangerous, a liability.
Orthriel’s voice eases through my mind like a warm balm. ‘Leilani, I’m coming.’ I close my eyes, lean into it. ‘It will take time; I can’t ride the breezes so easily as I once did. Stay calm. Don’t give them more reasons to punish you.’
At least my Guardian doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ again.
Saros makes to return to the palace, but pauses.
His eyes flick to Elvi, who’s muttering recriminations to herself in her native Peaktois.
He sneers, nostrils flaring, as he takes in my borrowed robes, her uncovered, lowborn hair, the jagged sounds she’s making in a dialect my father has outlawed.
The realms may be at odds, but the King insists his courtiers use the shared Mystic Tongue, gifted to us by the Dawn Sister herself.
Realising what’s about to happen, I whisper a silent prayer as manacles are fastened around my wrists, cold metal biting my skin. But it goes unheeded.
‘Punish the liegemaid in proxy,’ Saros says. ‘It’s as the King feared – she must have encouraged the Princess in this lunacy, put the idea in her head.’
‘No!’ The scream escapes me before I can stop it.
Elvi falls to her knees, clutching at Saros’ robes, but other Watchers pounce, hauling her to her feet, pinning her arms behind her back.
Maybe touching me is bad luck, after all.
‘Twenty lashes. That should teach the lesson.’ Saros’ voice is smooth as snow-silk.
My chest locks. Elvi has never received corporal punishment before, not because of me. I twist away from the Watchers. ‘Saros, please. She didn’t—’
He doesn’t let me finish. With a swirl of his cloak, Saros stalks back towards the palace, the glowering eye on the back of his robes winking in the ebbing sunlight. No doubt he’ll delight in telling my father his orders have been fulfilled. Good dog.
‘I’m sorry,’ Elvi whispers again.
But it’s me who should be apologising. I start to tell her I never meant for this to happen, when one of the Watchers draws a leather whip from his belt. Elvi’s face crumples. She begins to shake.
Are they really doing this now? Here?
I hate that my father does this – punishes Elvi to hurt me.
It’s the reason I didn’t tell her my plans.
After what happened when the forbidden books I saved from my father’s recent purges were discovered, I hoped to spare her this time.
But I never imagined he’d order her whipped.
It’s only ever been a loss of privileges up to now.
He reserves his physical chastisements for me, though he’s scrupulous, careful to never leave permanent marks.
I suppose he considers my brand disfigurement enough.
More likely, he’s worried my mother might learn of the ‘treatments’ he routinely prescribes me.
He knows I’ll never tell her. The truth would destroy her, and I’ve destroyed enough already.
Guards yank my elbows, hauling me towards the Sanctuary. As I realise what Elvi has cost me, what they’ll force me to do now, what dark forces it might unleash, my apology melts like a snowflake on my tongue.
The only thing I’m sorry for is getting caught.
But that changes the instant I hear the hiss of the whip and Elvi’s screams. Shame claws my chest, settling in the marrow of my bones.
My fault.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
I jerk against the restraints, kick out at the guards, strain towards Elvi. She twists towards me too, eyes wretched and full of tears.
Something hard strikes the back of my head.
I know nothing after that.
*
IT’S TOO DARK to see anything, but the Sanctuary, a windowless crypt buried deep in the bowels of the Observatory, is thick with the woody scent of rosemary.
My head is throbbing, a lump bloating where one of the Watchers must have knocked me unconscious.
My heart is racing, my skin is crawling, the walls are closing in.
I focus on the cool alabaster bed beneath me, use it to ground myself.
Stars, I wish Orthriel were here. I reach for the door connecting our minds, but it’s shut fast. Our connection is weakening, ebbing along with all magic in Arcelia. All save my own cursed powers.
I count backwards from a hundred. Once my thoughts stop spinning and my pulse slows, I wrap my arms tighter around my knees, so far as I’m able with fetters still cutting at my wrists.
The darkness, the cold, denying me water – my father’s instructions, I assume.
Punishments for running away. My throat is scratchy, though I gave up screaming hours ago.
At least, I think it’s been hours. You lose all sense of time down here.
There’s a rasp of boots on stone. I straighten as the door creaks open.
King Hyperion himself. Flickering lantern-light throws my father’s sharp profile into high relief: blade-like nose, razor-edged jaw, ironclad lips.
Steel-grey eyes glaring down at me. Behind him, shelves of curative crystals and elixirs.
Row upon row of them, in all the colours of the rainbow.
Beautiful but useless – at least as far as my mother is concerned.
The healers’ preparations stopped working many moons ago, though they drudge on at my father’s insistence, desperate to cure her, blind to the awful truth staring them in the face.
She’s fading.
My fault.
I focus on the space around my father’s grizzled head. My vision blurs, dims, as it always does when I use my second-sight, and colours start to leach from his body, staining the air like the watercolour paints my mother favours. His neutral expression masks a jagged ruby aura of rage.
The bitter scent of frost-figs thickens as he crouches over me, his face mere inches from mine. If he notices the fleeting misting of my eyes, he doesn’t mention it.
‘What did you mean by fleeing the palace?’