Chapter 6
It turned out that studying Astronomy involved performing an outrageous number of mathematical calculations, slogging through hours of tedious observation, and star-charting the skies until my eyes were bloodshot and my brain was fried.
It was too late to drop the class, however, and so, at ten o’clock the following evening, I packed my bag and headed toward the most secluded part of campus, to the glass dome building that held Ouverham’s observatory.
For this week’s assignment, Dr. Radenko had instructed us to track the motion of one planet against the stars over time to understand its retrograde motion. Technically, the assignment was due last week, but I hadn’t had a chance to complete it yet, hence my hasty trip to the observatory.
The stars twinkled like icy gems in the midnight sky as the domed building came into view. I’d booked the room for one hour, just long enough to complete the assignment. Tonight, I had the place to myself.
With the kind of nervous anticipation that can only accompany the freedom of privacy, I headed over to the colossal refractor telescope at the center of the room.
On the far left of the circular room lay a panel with hundreds of dials and buttons, but the only thing I was interested in was the lever in the middle—the mechanism that opened the dome to the sky.
Cringing slightly at the grating sound of metal on metal, I watched as the panels drew back, revealing the night sky above.
Gathering my notes, I leaned over and squinted into the eye of the telescope.
An explosion of starry cosmos came into view, momentarily robbing me of breath.
It was an arresting sight. Once I’d had my fill, I headed back over to the panel, studying the array of buttons until I found the one labeled, “Mars tracking,” and pressed it.
Thankfully, the college’s telescope was pre-programmed to track specific planets.
The machine gave a mechanical whirr and adjusted its position.
With my eye over the lens, I squinted up at the planet now in focus, glowing a bright orange as if it were made of fire.
After diligently making note of Mars’s position relative to Regulus, I then noted the locations of Castor and Pollux, also within the constellation Leo, and then sat back.
I planned to repeat the process again in an hour.
Stargazing always reminded me of my father.
On humid summer nights, he’d spend hours tinkering with his antique telescope, before calling me over to have a look at Saturn or Uranus.
If my father had been ruled by any celestial body, it was Mars.
He shared the Red Planet’s reputation for passion, impulsiveness, and conflict.
As a child, I’d wondered—foolishly—if Mars wasn’t also the planet of liquor, since my dad so often reeked of it while tracking the movements of the stars on clear nights.
“Ah, Pyroeis, the fiery planet,” he’d murmur, squinting up at the heavens.
“You have a dash of that mercurial fire in you, too, Little Arrow. Headstrong.” He’d look over at me and wink in emphasis.
I could still feel the weight of the scope under my fingers, its brass warmed by his touch.
As the hour mark approached, I gazed back into the lens, again taking note of Mars’ movements.
My pen froze at the sound of muffled voices approaching.
It was probably just the grad students coming back to lock up for the night, but I’d already overstayed my allotted time slot. With a sigh, I prepared to make the necessary apologies when my heart thudded to a halt.
I knew that voice.
Frantically, I searched the room for a hiding place, just managing to conceal myself beneath the panel of buttons when the door clicked open.
“I don’t see why we had to come all the way out here to have this discussion—”
“As I’ve already told you, I don’t wish to be overheard,” said another.
The door clicked shut as Evren and Devereaux entered the observatory.
My mind worked furiously. Any minute now, they’d notice the dome was open. If I was lucky, maybe they’d think the careless astronomy grads left it that way… Otherwise, they might suspect that someone else remained in the observatory.
I stifled a gasp as Evren threw himself into the chair directly in front of me, kicking his feet up onto the panel. From this angle, I couldn’t make out either of their faces, but I could hear every word of their conversation clearly.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t just march back into Ethervale and demand your father’s kin declare fealty,” Evren drawled. “They signed their vows in blood. They wouldn’t be able to deny your rightful position if you confronted them.”
My stomach flipped at the mention of Ethervale, that mythic place where “daemons plaie.”
Devereaux paced the room, the heels of his leather boots clicking on the tile floor.
Frustration leached into his silky tone.
“As I have already told you, we cannot just march into the Ivory Court. We were formally exiled and Pax would have grounds to arrest us and leave us to rot in Carcerus. And then where would we be?”
Evren sighed melodramatically. “I know,” he groaned. “I’m just so sick of waiting around. We’ve wasted years just biding our time.”
This elicited a snort from Devereaux. “You seem to have been enjoying yourself well enough. You never miss any of the Gilded parties,” he observed. “At least, when there are girls around…”
“Whatever,” Evren scoffed dismissively. “The fact of the matter is, I’m bored, Dev.”
Devereaux gave a long-suffering sigh. “We cannot act until we have more information about the Keeper’s Heir. Once we uncover their identity, you will have plenty to do, believe me.”
I wished I could see their faces to gauge their reactions, but I couldn’t risk moving, or else they might discover me.
Evren swiveled in his chair, presumably to look at Devereaux. “Do you mean it?” he mocked.
Devereaux chuckled. “I’ll need your special talents to extract valuable information,” he said.
“And after? Can we go back to Ethervale?”
“We must complete the ritual first,” he intoned. “We must time everything right, but yes, returning has always been the plan.”
“What about Wrayburn?” Evren asked suddenly, his tone menacing. “From what I saw at the Tusk, he’s going to be a problem.”
“Let me worry about Wrayburn,” said Devereaux dismissively. “I’ve observed him for many years. I know how to bring him to heel. The trick with him is to hit him where it hurts.”
“...And I assume you know how to do that?” Evren asked.
Devereaux sighed heavily, as if Evren was being especially thick. “The Farrow girl, of course. The way he came to her rescue in the Tusk…You must have noticed how furious he was when he found her at our table.”
“Ah,” Evren murmured. “But that’s just Wrayburn for you. Always had a bleeding heart.”
Devereaux cut in sharply, “No, this was different. Wrayburn is not the sort to intervene for just anyone.”
“I can’t see why he’d bother with her,” grumbled Evren.
A hard knot formed in the pit of my stomach.
They were talking about using me against Casimir.
My legs were beginning to cramp. Carefully, I shifted my position, still ensuring my limbs were concealed beneath the panel.
I shuddered to think how they might react if they discovered the subject of their conversation was listening mere inches away.
Devereaux hummed in agreement. “I can’t claim to understand his…fascination…” he said, the disdain clear in his voice. “But Wrayburn isn’t as subtle as he believes, nor is he invulnerable.”
Evren snickered. “He might be magically powerful, but his heart is weak, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
The pair of them laughed then, and I ground my teeth together. They were laughing at Casimir, casually discussing the idea of using me as leverage against him. But the whole notion was absurd. Casimir hardly knew me. Surely, they were overstating the likelihood of his coming to my defense.
“She’s not horrible to look at, I suppose,” Evren conceded. He paused, and then added, “Perhaps I can have her, after she’s fulfilled her purpose.”
Bile rose at the back of my throat.
Devereaux had paced far enough away that I could just make out his pale features, and I was relieved to see he appeared amused, but not indulgent. “You already have a pet to play with, Evren,” he reminded him gently.
Evren groaned. “But I’m bored with Sinclair,” he whined.
“Everyone bores you, Evren.”
“That’s not true. I courted Isolde for months! That’s practically a matrimonial level of commitment.”
“Unsuccessfully, as I recall,” Devereaux smirked, and I imagined Evren’s answering scowl. “You won’t be saddled with Sinclair’s presence much longer, in any case. Most mortals don’t survive the ritual.”
My blood turned to ice in my veins. Most mortals don’t survive?
So, that night in the Tusk when August had called my blood unworthy, he had been trying to spare me in the only way he could—under the guise of indifference and prejudice. But that also meant—
August was going to die.
Panic seeped into the edges of my mind, my breathing becoming ragged and uneven. Breathe, Arden. I forced myself to focus on the rest of their conversation.
“So can I have her, when it’s done?” Evren prompted. “I want the chance to discover a crack in her shields.”
Devereaux huffed. “Your ego bruises far too easily, Dronov. Don’t let it bother you.”
Evren Dronov.
Evren grumbled mutinously. “Of course it fucking bothers me! It would torment you, too—don’t deny it, Dev. I just don’t understand why…”
I reigned in a gasp. They don’t know why I’m immune to Evren’s glamours. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage.
“We’ll see,” Devereaux acquiesced with a sigh. “It’ll be on your head if Wrayburn retaliates.”
It wasn’t hard to imagine a smirk gracing Evren’s cruel mouth.