CHAPTER TWO
HER SLEIGHT OF HAND
This greyhorn is punishing me. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why this smelly ox keeps flicking its tail, scattering its putrid scent everywhere.
When I secreted this ox away from the stables at Widow’s Hall, I’d hoped that if the cold robbed my nose of feeling (it did, ten minutes ago), it would also spare me my sense of smell.
No such luck.
Two greyhorns drag their shaggy legs through the trails in the icy mountain roads with obvious reluctance. Despite their thick, gray wool, they look about as frozen pulling the sledge as I feel steering it.
I’m covered, head to toe, in a combination of wool, fur, and leather. Feet tucked into fur-lined boots, shoulders and neck wrapped in a thick wool sjaal, face hidden behind a goats-hide and leather mask with mesh over my eyes. I’m still shivering.
The mountains are always brutal, but at night, they’re unbearable.
It’s not snowing, but wind swirls ice crystals from the ground, narrowing visibility so much, I almost miss our destination until it’s right in front of us.
I yank the reins, tugging the oxen to a halt.
They snort in irritation but stop, stomping their hooves in place to keep warm. Reaching back, I rap on the black coach of the sledge to capture Sef’s attention.
I pat one of the oxen on the flank as I slip off the bench and waddle over to tug open the coach door.
Sef descends from the sledge, somehow bearing more of a resemblance to a goddess than an icicle despite the frigid air.
We’re both in disguise tonight. I’m dressed as a stablehand, and she’s dressed as me.
Well, as the Shadow Queen. Sef wears a black dress and overdress, bloodred sjaal, black velvet mask that covers her entire face, and black lace gloves.
Sef and I rarely deliver blackmail notes to Honorate doorsteps like this, but when we do, it’s always in costume. We want the select few who catch glimpses of her to describe someone ethereal, mysterious, and without that telltale golden tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
Sef holds an envelope with Honorate Jasper Nox’s name scrawled on the front. Tomorrow morning, he’ll find it tucked under his doorway and know instantly it’s from the Shadow Queen. At tomorrow’s council meeting, Nox will arrive ready to do as I say and vote in favor of the proposed order.
He and the rest of the Honorate have already been warned against competing for the throne.
In Virdei, power is a prize to be earned.
If there’s more than one candidate for Praeceptor, they face off in the Tournament of Thrones—a series of deadly competitions designed to test a candidate’s cunning and prowess.
First to win two of the three trials wins the throne.
It’s the Republic’s favorite tradition. I intend to snuff it.
Luc barely has the stomach to deliver harsh words to sweet strangers, let alone the cruel streak necessary to win a Tournament of Thrones. If my brother is to reign again—and he will—then he must run unopposed.
“You ready?” I ask Sef, voice muffled beneath my mask.
“Always.” She tips up her chin and glides from the sledge as though skating on ice.
She reaches the front door of Nox’s manor and raps on the dark wood.
Like most Virdeian manors, Nox’s house is large, not tall.
Mount Saidu is pelted with unforgiving winds and heavy snow most of the year, so there aren’t many tall structures.
Most manors have one or two aboveground stories of tshira and mortar, and the bulk of the house is carved into the mountain.
Sef slips the envelope under the door and turns back, making her way across the stone-lined walkway to the sledge.
She’s halfway back when someone cries out.
I straighten to attention. A servant races out from the side of Nox’s house, headed for Sef.
The man calls out again. Sef runs faster, but she’s not quick enough. Her pursuer’s legs are longer and not tangled up in a skirt.
My heartbeat quickens. Time to show off my magic.
If you believe Virdeian legend (I don’t), magic was gifted to us hundreds of years ago by a lonely god. He sprinkled it like sugar into the streams that flow through the mountains, infecting the people who drink it and the tshira deposits throughout the mountain with its power.
Even magic has limits. The few of us with magic, the aikkari, need a source to fuel it.
An aikkari’s source can be anything. Something tangible, like the red-brown sagegrass that grows in patches on the mountainside; something intangible, like a particular shade of yellow; or something invisible, like an emotion.
We’re taught from an early age: magic must be fed. Mine feeds on lies.
Alongside the aikkari are the isha (another gift from the alleged lonely god). With a single touch, they can sense an aikkari’s source. They’re useful, but rare. There hasn’t been an isha reported in Virdei for decades.
I yank open the coach door for Sef, before hauling myself onto the bench behind the greyhorns. They huff and stomp their legs faster, eager to get moving and return to the warmth of their stables.
The servant is gaining on Sef. He’ll be upon her in a matter of seconds.
I peel off one glove and slide the other down, exposing my wrist. Icy wind nips at the sliver of bare skin. My teeth grind against the cold as I touch my palm to the tshira pendant on my bracelet. The magic stored within fills me with familiar, comforting warmth.
Sef is almost to the sledge. The servant chasing her is just a few paces behind.
In a practiced motion, she flicks a hand over her shoulder.
I send a wave of heat at the ground behind her.
Snow melts into icy, slippery sludge. The servant chasing Sef isn’t expecting it. His next racing step sends his feet skidding. With a shout of surprise, he splashes to the ground.
Sef darts through the open coach door.
I tug the reins, urging the greyhorns to move. The sledge’s runners are oiled up every night, so they glide smoothly over the ice as we rush away.
I glance behind me. The melted snow at the man’s feet is already freezing again, making it difficult for him to rise.
He opens his mouth and cries out, but the sound is lost to the wind.
In a few seconds, silver snow clouds my vision, and I can see him no longer.
I’m shivering and exhausted by the time the oxen trot through the stable entrance at Widow’s Hall.
A ramp leads from the blistering wind outside to the tunnels running underneath that contain the stables and dungeons.
The sledge glides down the incline, deeper into the mountain, until we reach the animal stalls.
My body is ready to collapse, but there’s no time for that. I shove aside fatigue, discard my mask, and unhook the grey-horns from the sledge.
The stable walls are lined with tshira. Perfect for the decurio and their magic to keep the walls nice and warm so the animals don’t freeze. I fight a yawn as I brush snow and mud from the greyhorns’ thick coats.
Sef removes her mask next to me. “Want help?”
I give her a small smile. “Have you forgotten how you’re dressed?” I wave a hand over the thin Shadow Queen costume. Sef must be freezing. “Go to bed. Thanks for tonight.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know you don’t have to thank me, Mira.”
“And you don’t have to help me.”
“It’s my job.”
I pick up a handful of straw and throw it playfully at her. “You’re meant to be a personal maid. This is far beyond your job requirements.”
Sef’s laugh is her only acknowledgment that she knows I’m right. “I think he was faster than the others.”
I smirk. “I fear you’re getting slower. Must be your old age.”
Sef is barely twenty, but she gasps as though offended. “Just for that, I will go to bed now.” She stretches her arms above her head. “Good night, Mira. See you tomorrow.”
She turns to leave—and stops. A stablehand idles in the stall doorway. He’s so shocked to see us, he hasn’t sounded an alarm yet. Now that we’ve spotted him, he finds his voice. “A-are you meant to be here?”
Seeing as it’s the middle of the night, and Sef and I are clearly not stablehands, the answer is obviously no.
I reach for the tshira pendant at my wrist. Cold. Damn. I used magic at Nox’s manor, and then again on our way back to warm the coach for Sef. My trinket is useful, but small—it can only store so much magic at once.
Fortunately, lies are rarely hard to come by.
I nudge my shoulder into Sef’s, and an unspoken understanding passes between us.
Without missing a beat, Sef smiles at the stablehand. “Yes. Of course we are.”
Heat from her lie spreads through me like ink. I don’t take the time to savor the feeling. I rush forward and press a hand to the man’s forehead.
He doesn’t speak. As my magic pierces his mind, his expression drips like melting candle wax. His eyelids droop, body slumps, and anything he might’ve been preparing to say wisps into nothingness. When I’m sure the magic has done its job, I lower my hand.
The stablehand sways on his feet, eyes half lidded and dazed, as though waking from a nap with no idea how much time has passed.
Sef and I slip away while he’s still disoriented.
He won’t remember this interaction. In a few months, echoes of recollection will likely come back to him in his sleep.
Since the memory was brief, he’ll probably dismiss it as a strange dream.
Longer memories are harder to erase. They require more magic, and even still, over time, stolen memories start to trickle back in.
All aikkari can manipulate heat, tshira, and their magic’s source. For me, that source is deception. In practice, that means I can alter a person’s perception of the truth—their memories.
When the smoke clears and the stablehand comes to, he’ll find himself alone in the stables, dizzy and muddled, unsure of what’s just happened. And Sef and I will be long gone.