Chapter 11
spend hours composing my apology.
The main points are:
It’s a good speech, but I don’t get the chance to share it. Because Cygnus never shows up.
“He’s on bed rest,” Anna says matter-of-factly when I ask after him. “Got into a brawl and had his face bashed in. Stupid pastime, fighting, if you ask me.”
I nod mutely, swallowing my distress. Cygnus seemed fine after the altercation.
Furious? Yes. But unyielding, as always.
Frankly, he took the hit with more stoicism than I would have expected from the erudite Healer.
After all the time I’ve spent cursing and hating and fearing him, it’s hard to fathom that such a larger-than-life figure can be leveled by a single punch.
In Cygnus’s absence, there’s no one to assign me stupid housekeeping chores, and my work in the storehouse proceeds at double time.
Before I know it, I’ve completed the distillation process and can start adding the powdered ingredients.
I meet with the queen again, and she commends my progress.
But as the days stretch into a week, and Cygnus still doesn’t reemerge, I begin to fear something is terribly wrong.
He’s not my only source of anxiety.
On my way to the queen’s chambers one evening, I run into Odessa with one of her ladies. She smirks at my approach. When I’ve stepped past but am still well within earshot, she practically purrs, “I heard someone trashed that poor girl’s room. Such a shame.”
Her companion giggles, “You’d think she could take the hint.”
It takes everything in me to keep walking.
Well, that solves one mystery.
The worst part about Odessa’s ire (other than the time it took to clean up the mess) is how quickly it has become groundless.
Finn vanished after the incident with Cygnus.
I expected him to seek me out to apologize, or at least explain what I witnessed.
Instead, I got a cold shoulder so sudden and thorough that I’ve begun to rethink my entire perception of our relationship.
In the garden, I thought that we were perfectly aligned, that he felt the same imperative pull that I did.
I even dared to imagine we were dreaming of the same future.
But days pass with no word, days I know he’s spending in the castle, thanks to Daisy and the scullery rumor mill.
Finally, more than a week after the incident, Finn shows up at the hospital—with Sandria, of all people. Daisy runs straight to the storehouse to inform me, and when I hurry onto the staging floor, Finn pretends not to know me when I meet his eye.
I have never felt more confused in my life.
Heartsick, I stagger into the washroom to hide.
The chamber’s spacious windows provide a clear view of the ward.
The smell of soap and linen is comforting.
I breathe it in steadily, my mouth tight, as I watch the prince and princess stroll among the patients.
Finn walks with his hands clasped behind his back, nodding and bowing politely.
Sandria is more personal, holding babies, kissing hands.
They look disjointed together, like game pieces from different sets.
Not that I care.
On her way to pick up a fresh batch of sheets, Anna catches me staring at Sandria. “She’s a born politician, that one,” she remarks. “The queen’s been trying to get them together for ages.”
This fact—predictably—does not ease my distress.
“You don’t think Sandria’s sincere?” I swivel, facing her.
Anna shrugs. “She might be. But that doesn’t mean she’s not campaigning. There’s a reason the Ursandorns sent her to court. With all the tension and whatnot, they want someone building goodwill from the inside. She does a fine job of it.”
I wonder, with a pinch of skepticism, why Ursandor would waste Sandria’s time building goodwill while simultaneously unleashing a biological weapon that would brand them as monsters. What’s the point of polishing their image if they’re right on the brink of declaring war?
“By the way,” Anna adds, just before leaving, “we’re about to have some changes to the staff.
Once things get shuffled, I’d like to recommend you as a Healer’s apprentice.
It’s a longer path than traditional school, but you wouldn’t have to leave the castle.
And from what I’ve seen, you’d be fantastic. ”
“I—Thank you!” I gasp, chest swelling with elation. “That means the world, Anna! You have no idea—Thank you!” I’m swept up with the urge to fling my arms around the Healer and twirl her…
Until the implication hits.
“What do you mean, changes to the staff?”
I pause in front of the door, wondering once again if this is a mistake.
Precariously balanced in my arms is a tray with chicken soup, nut bread, assorted vegetables, and an orange that keeps threatening to roll away. I’m in the highest room in the South Tower, which I was only able to locate thanks to several helpful guards.
Deciding I’m being cowardly, I knock, balancing the tray cautiously on a knee to do so. Harrowing silence follows. During those painfully slow seconds, I fret I might have picked the wrong room. Then a weak “Come in…” sounds from the chamber, and I press open the door.
It’s dark. The chamber has one large window, but the curtains are drawn fast, leaving only a narrow strip of light.
The furniture is only faintly illuminated around the edges, but my Elven eyes adjust quickly.
I spot a desk, an empty fireplace with books stacked both in and above the mantel, a saggy armchair, and a huge four-poster bed that occupies most of the limited space.
The person lying in it can only be Cygnus. As I edge toward him, tray rattling, I brace for his fury, expecting him to scream, or insult me, or both.
But Cygnus hardly moves. When I get close enough to see him clearly, I understand why. His eyes are swollen beyond recognition, outlined by ghastly purple bruises. Bandages cover half his face. As I set the tray down on the trunk at the foot of his bed, he rasps a familiar chuckle.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I take a deep breath. “I came to apologize.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Cygnus says, surprising me. “I’ve made your life hell. Of course you’d fight back eventually.”
“No. Well, yes, it’s not been great, but Finn shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry he did.”
Cygnus remains silent.
I ask tentatively, “What’s the diagnosis?”
“Well, it turns out Finn’s got quite the punch. He hit my orbital bone, we think. I’ll have some nerve damage and, for now, a really, really bad headache.”
My stomach lurches. I know that tone. It’s the same one Mother uses to cushion terrible news.
“I’m so sorry, Cygnus.”
“It’s not your fault.” His hands twitch, tenting over his chest. “That confrontation was a long time coming.”
Without asking for permission, I sink into the armchair. “What do you mean?” I ask, partly from curiosity, partly to lure some life back into him.
I’m not sure if he’ll answer. But to my surprise, Cygnus takes a deep breath and explains, “Finn and I grew up together. We’re only a year or so apart in age—I’m not exactly sure, since I didn’t know my mother.
But we experienced everything together: first dueling lesson, first fight, first time falling in love.
We used to be inseparable. In some ways, I think I know him better than anyone. He might say the same.
“When we were kids, all the titles and bullshit didn’t seem to matter. He said he didn’t want to be king, that he wouldn’t want the attention. But people are a product of their environment, right? And he’s the son of the king. You can’t escape that.
“As we got older, I watched him get corroded by privilege. Finn never had any checks against his impulses—the king barely paid attention to him. I think that made him sad at first, and then he got angry and started acting out. So, when I was studying to be a Healer and starting to find my footing professionally, Finn was out chasing skirts and getting hammered and making messes for other people to pick up. He got foolhardy. He stopped seeing how his actions affected anybody else.”
He meets my eye, and I know Cygnus is questioning if he’s gone too far—shared too much. But I want him to feel at ease with me. “Go on.”
He continues, gaining steam. “By the time he turned eighteen, he was out of control. That’s when his father shoved him into military service.
And even then, I don’t think he ever sobered up to the responsibility of it.
Sure, he got passed up the ranks, and he’s good with a sword.
But the Frumentari don’t respect him. His men only follow him because they must.”
“The Frumentari?” I’ve never heard the term.
“Our intelligence network. The ones tasked with hunting down the remaining Talents. You know those soldiers that sometimes lurk around the West Wing? The ones in the black uniforms? Finn is their captain.”
I take a slow, deliberate breath, attempting to keep my voice level. “That’s…that’s what Finn does?”
“Yes,” says Cygnus flatly.
All this information makes my head spin.
This must be the position he referred to—the one he didn’t want to say much about.
Finn is an agent of the Frumentari. He hunts people with magic.
The facts plunge through me, lancing and cold.
Do I really know him at all? How badly have I misjudged him?
I draw a deep breath, recalibrating. “Does he know what he did to your face?”
“Yes. He arrived before the Healers did.” Cygnus smiles weakly. “I had to talk him down from jumping out the window when they told him I’d lose my sight.”
“What?” I leap out of the chair.
He chuckles darkly. “Sit down.”
“No! No! Cygnus, you’ve got the best Healers in the Midlands here!” I argue. “They’ve got to be able to do something. There’s got to be some kind of a procedure….”
“It’s nerve damage. It’s not reversible.”
“You can’t just give up!”
“I appreciate the passion, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Please—sit down.”
I obey shakily.
Cygnus swallows, his words sharp and unexpected. “You…you care a lot more than I deserve, considering what a perfect ass I’ve been.”
“You have been an ass,” I admit.
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. Then slowly he says, “In a few days, I’m leaving for Dasken.”
“To heal?” I ask.
“To start my new life.”
“Your new life?”
“There’s a monastery that’s offered to take me in and help me adjust,” he explains. “It’s an outstanding facility. The queen has already made arrangements.”
Alarm rises in me. Fast. “You can’t leave,” I argue. “The hospital is your passion.”
“Anna will take over my position.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to leave!” I push back. “You can still work at the hospital without your sight.”
“I can’t do surgery!”
“So what? Support in other ways!”
“You don’t get it,” he snaps. “It’s not just about surgery. I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s less painful for me to start over somewhere new.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m very tired, Lyria,” he says softly. “Thank you for the food, but I’d like to sleep now.”
It’s a gentle dismissal but a dismissal nonetheless. I stand reluctantly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he says. “And I’m sorry for what I said.”
“Me too.”
As I close his chamber door and start down the steps, my Talent flares—not quite painful this time, but present. Demanding.
I know what I have to do.
In the early hours of the following morning, I tiptoe back into Cygnus’s chambers.
The curtains are open this time, and moonlight washes the chamber a ghostly pale blue.
Thanks to the nocturn I snuck into his tea after dinner, he doesn’t wake at the click of the door, or at my gingerly approaching steps. His breathing is regular and deep.
My Talent is red-hot and pulsing with anticipation. Drawing a deep breath, I reach for the coil at the base of my spine and tug a thread—willing a strand to unspool and flow through my fingers.
When I touch Cygnus’s face, I keep the contact featherlight.
Nocturn should hold him, but I can’t be too certain.
His wounds are complex. As I graze my fingertips over his brow and cheek, I sense each of the infinite threads that comprise his life force.
Some are tangled and battered, pulsing raw in the spots where the nerves had been damaged or severed.
I find the fractured section of delicate bone just below his left eye, and behind it, a whole mess of swelling and bruises.
Discretion is everything. I can’t mend the wound outright without risking discovery. I focus on the inner nerves around his eye, weaving my magic into his invisible tapestry. I leave the fracture, merely aligning the bone fragments to ensure minimal disfiguration.
It’s complicated healing, even more detailed than what I did for Finn.
Working so close to his brain makes my heart race.
By the end of it, I’m panting and slick with sweat.
But when I step back to admire my work, I feel confident that no one can discern what I’ve done.
His eyes are still raccoon-like, his bandages untouched.
Nothing looks changed.
But everything is.
I linger at his side for a beat longer than necessary, watching his chest rise and fall. In sleep, Cygnus’s features are more peaceful, less jaded. Overlooking the swelling and gauze, I can appreciate the slope of his nose and the gentle arc of his lips. He is almost as beautiful as Finn.
As I creep back to my room, my heart is pounding again.
This time, it has nothing to do with fear.