Chapter 7 The Prince #3
His face drops as I slam the door on him, locking it for the night.
My shoulders slump. That wasn’t as satisfying as I wanted it to be.
I cross over to the built-in window seat, curl against the glass, and stare off at the volcano.
It’s dangerously close, the lava burbling at its top and bleeding down its sides casting an orange glow that cascades through the window and the stained glass around the panes in a symphony of color.
It feels as if the magma could reach us, yet the magic of this place holds it at bay.
My thoughts stray to Draven, the way he smelled, the feel of his hands cupping mine …
wait. He can probably hear these very thoughts.
I curse myself, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
Who knows how far that kind of power can span.
The violation stirs within me. Like a drop of black paint mixed into a gallon of white, that feeling of safety within my mind is gone, never the same shade again.
I choke down my anger, staring out the window at the pulsing volcano, hypnotized by the oozing lava, its path leaving brilliant hues through its river channels. It burns all. Is stopped by nothing.
Stuck between all these things you want. Unlikely to give yourself any of it. That’s a privilege I’ve never had. A moon-cursed peasant woman with brown skin? Never.
But I’m so over playing by others’ rules.
Why should I allow anything or anyone to get in my way?
I came here to reunite my family, whatever the cost. So, I will, even if it means mastering this power and taking down any immortal that stands in my path. The prick princeling included.
That thought has my fury cooling like the bubbled black rock where the lava ceases to travel. But something worse fills its void, seeping into my chest.
Staring at that volcano, I feel small, alone, unloved, and unseen.
Tears swell like the high tide, releasing with shaking breaths as I stare into the fiery sea.
I remember raging about the immortals to my father once, when my mother was too depressed to climb out of bed, too hurt by the loss of my brother to even eat.
I loathed every immortal with all that I was, but my father held me close and said hatred was a poison.
A cancer that would eventually infect every bit of one’s soul, eating me alive.
It would not harm the immortals who hurt us.
Only action could. But neither poison nor blade would heal my pain or correct our loss.
Healing was a gift only I could give myself.
Yet sometimes healing is not enough. Sometimes things first must burn.
Eventually, I exhaust myself to sleep.
I SIT IN THE BACK of a chaotic classroom the following day with Ember, Morgan, Kasper, Wynter, a girl from Death’s Hearth named Amaya, and a boy from the Fool’s Hearth named Felix.
The purpose of this class on divination and readings is to draw out cards and interpret them, letting the storytelling side of tarot explore our futures, pasts, and what is happening around us.
Professor Anstead described how we would feel a slight vibration in the air as we ran our hands over the cards’ surface, to tell us which was the right one to pull.
It’s like picking a lock; the slightest bump something only the cleverest fingers could sense, and I happen to be pretty good at that.
It requires a closer connection with our Major Arcana though, so we’re given time at the end of the lesson to practice drawing those out.
Mine stubbornly stays put.
Amaya pulls Death with ease, darkness reflecting in her large brown eyes, her hair straighter than if it was ironed, and jet-black.
Ember draws the Star nearly as often and even adds a neat trick of snapping her fingers beforehand.
It glints with opulent light, spinning in the air.
Felix watches her in awe, his smile charming but crooked, brown hair hanging in his face as he leans in, watching her work reverently, his own Arcana laying loose across the top of his deck.
I bite back a smirk, wondering if Ember sees the obvious worship in his eyes.
I glance down at his stack of cards and find myself drawn in with a question.
“So, the Fool card is which number exactly? It’s a Major Arcana, but I’ve heard professors reference its numbering differently,” I comment.
Felix sits up, brushing his hair with his hand, smiling wide as though he’s just happy to be included.
“That’s the fun thing; it’s both the lowest and highest Arcana.
” His grin broadens at my surprise. “Yep, even higher than the World. But the power is fearlessness in its upright position and inducing fear in its reverse. How it manifests all depends on the user, I guess. Obviously, it rarely topples the World, if ever.”
“It’s typically a card used by royal guards and officers, allowing those capable of mastering it to rise quickly in the ranks,” Amaya says. She and Wynter are the only druid-born in our group. Neither seem to mind.
“Yeah? How does the High Priestess translate to a job?” Kasper asks, struggling to summon his card from the stack, almost as if he doesn’t want it.
“The ability to read minds is a useful one for sure.” Amaya shrugs her lithe shoulders, voice dry.
My heart skips a beat—somehow, I missed connecting that ability with Kasper’s Arcana. “Lots of lords and ladies want a spy in their midst, someone to keep them informed of people’s thoughts and intentions.”
“Great, like a pet,” Kasper grumbles, his hand curling over his own stack of cards as he attempts to draw. After a moment, the High Priestess flips upright, the top lifting slightly from the pile before lying flat again. “Gods-fucking-damn-it.”
Morgan swallows at his side, running a hand through his dark crimson hair before asking, “Is that what we’re here for? To get trained and sold off to the rich as workers? Amusements?”
“No—well, some will.” Amaya sits up straighter, fingers swimming over her stack like they’re competing in a race as she summons again.
“The Court controls Sedah, with the king and his family ruling at the top. The ancient houses and families are vast, and many of us have specific roles in the kingdom. For example, I’ll likely be brought on as an assassin or a spy, once I can manipulate shadows and eventually use them to travel.
If lucky, I might be brought in as a courtier to one of these ancient families, should they ever need to travel with discretion.
Shadows can be used to cloak oneself to near invisibility, or travel by portal, even move things.
It’s not as useful in spying as the Hermit’s invisibility, or the High Priestess’s mind reading but …
I’d rather be a spy or a courtier than a killer. ”
I swallow hard, shifting in my seat. As a Wraith, I was all three.
The Lord of Westfall’s prodigy. I glance at Kasper, but he’s not able to control his cards yet. My thoughts are safe for now, but how many others like Draven can read them when I’m merely existing in the world?
“But you won’t get a choice either way?” Morgan pushes, and I clench my jaw.
“We’ll be lucky to be chosen by a wealthy family.” Wynter shuffles his cards but avoids our uncertain stares.
“What happens if we aren’t?” Kasper asks.
“Some are dropped into the infantry. Glory can still be found there.” The distasteful look in Amaya’s gaze makes me think it’s a death sentence.
“Some may find a financier. Open a business of their own, that sort of thing.” She looks between us all doubtfully, though not unkindly.
“I’ve never seen one run by a changeling, though.
There are also less sought-after jobs, all necessary to keep the kingdom running. Not earned or honored.”
“Like manual labor?” Morgan guesses, his stack of cards shifting under the silvery power in his palm.
My leg bounces. I hate being the last in our small group to draw my card.
“Yes. Mining, building, infrastructure, scullery, housemaids, gardening, that sort of thing,” Amaya tells us.
I stop, thinking of a life stuck scrubbing floors, powerless and surrounded by the powerful. I’d rather die than spend my life serving these bastards.
“Great, I’m guessing that changeling scabs get chosen for those unfavorable jobs over the cushy ones,” Kasper groans. Silence settles over the group as we wait for Amaya’s response.
“No, actually, changelings are usually chosen first by wealthy families because—”
“Amaya Penderghast.” Professor Anstead’s stern voice causes me to jump, resounding right behind my ear, and the others jolt, too.
I notice a thin scar marring her face like a split in a river, crooking its way from above one eye to the hollow of her cheekbone.
Her gaze does not sway from Amaya, who shrinks in her seat, shoulders hunching. “Show me your draw.”
Amaya’s hand quivers as she lets it linger over her stack. After a moment, the Death card floats unsteadily from within the pack into her palm.
Professor Anstead narrows her stunning emerald eyes. “Now summon a shadow.”
“I … don’t know how yet.” Amaya’s eyes dip to the floor.
“I guess you don’t know everything, then,” Professor Anstead says icily.
I glare at her tone as she turns on her heel and marches away. Amaya stares at the cards stacked before her, hands trembling over shining gold-leaf surfaces. My curiosity grips me, and I lean forward.
“What were you going to say? Why would the rich prefer changelings?” I wait, but Amaya only shakes her head, focusing on her work. “Is this something to do with the Curse?”
Wynter clears his throat, looking away. Ember, Kasper, and Morgan all meet my eye, suspicion gathering there.
What the hells are they keeping secret that involves changelings?