Chapter 3
3
ROOK
T he boy leaned against his mother’s soft embrace. She smelled of pine and fresh snow, with just a hint of cinnamon lingering at the edges like a warm cup of spiced tea. Outside, the night sky swept by in a blur, bright stars whirring in streaks of light as they soared through the heavens.
The boy pressed closer to his mother, feeling her hand smooth down his hair.
He fought against sleep, his lids growing heavy as he was cushioned between his mother’s arms and the plush carriage seat, the soft sway of their cabin lulling him. His father and older sister were seated across the carriage. Moonlight swathed the pair of them and caught on the strands of silver in his father’s hair. The king’s hair was once completely black, but gray now flushed against his temples and threaded through his beard.
Next to his father, the boy’s older sister stared out the window, eyes wide and full of stars. Her fingers splayed against the pane, tracing the passing constellations. She was much older than the boy, hardened into steel after enduring the Tournament two years ago. But sometimes, like now, his older sister let her guard down and she appeared younger.
The boy wondered why they were traveling at night when it would have been so much easier to stay awake during the day. He yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. They were much closer to the ground now, he realized. A carpet of treetops unspooled below them, and a half-slice of moon beamed down on their flying carriage like a smile. The boy tried to count the stars like his sister, but they were moving too fast, and he quickly grew dizzy. He fell back against his mother’s lap and looked up at her. She was the most beautiful woman the boy had ever seen, with her long dark hair curled over one shoulder and her eyes sparkling as though she’d swallowed starlight. She looked down at him and smiled, but he noticed there were lines of worry creasing her forehead.
“Hold tight,” his mother whispered. She pulled him closer just as their carriage lurched forward. The fall of hooves pounding the earth filled his ears as the winged horses pulling their carriage landed on solid ground, wheels jostling over an uneven surface.
He sat up and pressed his face against the window, watching as tall trees whipped past them. It was much darker down here at the roots of the mountain, where moonlight couldn’t touch certain places and the sky was only half-full on the horizon. The boy had taken trips down this side of the mountain before, but previous journeys had always been preceded by a long line of carriages and soldiers flanking every window. This time, it was just the boy’s family. He couldn’t say why, but he felt afraid knowing they were completely alone.
The carriage rumbled to a stop. The boy’s father sat up, his back rigid as steel as he gazed out the window, his dark eyebrows furrowing together. The boy watched as his father made eye contact with his mother, unspoken words passing between them with just a quick glance. His mother nodded slightly. The boy hated when they did that. He wanted to know what they were secretly discussing. His parents didn’t think he noticed such small things, but he did.
In unison, the boy’s parents stood from their seats and made for the door. “We’ll return shortly,” the boy’s mother promised with one last glance over her shoulder. “Stay with your brother, Raven.”
As the carriage door opened and his parents ducked outside, a cold breeze spilled into the carriage and ruffled the boy’s hair. His mother closed the door, moving beyond the window and out of eyesight.
Hushed voices began speaking outside. The boy squinted out the window and peered into the dark woods. Another carriage had pulled up alongside them, though it was parked under a tree with long wispy branches that kept most of it hidden from view.
“What do you mean, the plan has changed?”
His father’s voice was muffled and distant, but the boy was an expert at eavesdropping. He and his sister had become quite proficient at listening when told not to. When they were younger, the two of them often crept out of bed and scurried up to closed doors, listening for voices under doorways with their hands clapped over their mouths to keep from giggling. But something told the boy that this was no laughing matter.
“You’re to meet now, Your Majesties,” came another voice the boy didn’t recognize. “There won’t be another opportunity, I’m afraid. They’ve found out about our rendezvous with Eleyera. Tomorrow will not be fit for secrets, so you must do it now.”
“My children are with me,” his father hissed. The boy could tell his father was very, very angry. “Can’t it wait until Meysam? We’re not far from the city. Lodgings have already been prepared for them. We’ll continue with the original plan, and we’ll meet with her tomorrow. Or, at the very least, we can drop my family off at a secure location and I’ll meet with her tonight if it truly cannot wait.”
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” came the other voice. “But this needs to happen now. Eleyera is insisting on it.” The faceless person sounded more panicked now, their words coming out clipped and harsh. “She’s already here.”
“Damn,” his father cursed. He blew out a long, frustrated breath. Usually, his father made that sound in his study when he was very frustrated over a political treaty gone awry, or when the boy spilled ink on the carpet in the library.
Quick as a shadow, the boy’s sister slipped across the aisle of the carriage and took a seat next to him. She plastered a reassuring smile across her face that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She took his chin between her hands gently. “We’re going to play a little game, would you like that?” The boy nodded, growing excited at the prospect. He loved games, especially when he got to play them with his older sister. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d done this. Normally she was withdrawn and aloof, locking herself in her room for days on end without speaking to anyone.
“All right, this is a game where you try to think of your favorite things in the whole world,” his sister said. “Now, you mustn’t be distracted by anything outside the carriage. It will be very difficult to ignore the voices outside, but I think you’re up to the challenge. I’ll go first.” She thought for a moment, drumming her fingers against her chin. The boy couldn’t help but stare at the ridges of burned flesh spiraling around her hands. She’d gotten those scars in the Tournament two years ago. He remembered how they had found a Tellusun Healer to help mend her flesh, but even they couldn’t make her skin as unblemished as it once had been.
“One of my favorite things is watching the sunset from the sky bridge,” his sister said.
“The one over the waterfall?”
“Yes, the very one,” she said with a nod. “Your turn.”
“I love it when father takes me flying,” he found himself saying. He flexed his juvenile wings for emphasis. They were much smaller than his sister’s matured ones, but still strong enough to hold him aloft in the sky.
The boy liked this game. He was thinking so hard about his favorite things he could hardly hear anything outside of the carriage. But the moment he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be listening, his eyes drifted over to the window. He tried to fight the urge to listen as his sister instructed, but he couldn’t help it. He was rather good at eavesdropping, after all.
He saw a woman standing outside the carriage. She looked strange. She didn’t have any wings, he noticed. Her skin looked different, too. It shimmered where the moonlight touched it, like iridescent paint had been smeared on her cheekbones and collarbones. She was a Mer. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight braid that hung over one shoulder, threaded with shimmering strands that looked like sea glass. Her eyes were pale blue, the color of moonlight reflecting on a serene lake. The voices of his mother and sister faded out as the boy focused on the strange woman, his ears straining to pick out the words he could see moving on her lips.
“ — is a lie,” the Mer woman was saying. She shook her head. “We must destroy ?—”
“ —h ow do you know — ,” came his father’s voice.
“Do you still want to play?” his sister interrupted. Her eyes flashed in the shadows. “It’s your turn again.”
The boy tore his eyes away from the window and focused back on his sister. But he could still hear a snatch of conversation outside.
“ — there is a secret. A prophecy. The sirens were ?— ”
“Rook.” His sister shifted forward, blocking his view of the window with her moon-gilded silhouette. He noticed her hands were trembling even though she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt. A seed of unease rooted itself in the back of his mind. His older sister was never afraid.
He was just about to tell her that one of his favorite things was when she used to read to him before bed when an explosion rocked the carriage and blinding white light seared his vision.
His mother burst into the carriage, blood spilling from the corners of her mouth.
“Rook!”
Rook jolted awake violently. His skin was flushed, as though the heat of the explosion from the dream had followed him into the waking world and burned at his heels. He could almost taste ash on his tongue. The scent of charred wood and tangy burnt metal was thick in his throat. His mother’s scream still echoed in his ears, threads of panic and terror pulled taut in her voice. He tried to steady his ragged breathing. The dream had felt so real and visceral. It was like Rook had been transported to that night, an invisible outsider peering into that cramped little carriage with vivid clarity. He thought of that awful night often, but he’d never relived it the way he just had in the dream. Each word exchanged was clear in his ears and each emotion was felt deep in his chest, as raw and poignant as the day it happened eight years ago.
Rook swiped a hand across his face. Sticky sweat beaded on his neck and forehead. Hel’s teeth, he was a mess. Rook had been plagued by strange dreams almost every night since he’d been stabbed by Selussa and felt the touch of death. Sometimes they were fragmented pieces of his own life, blurs of fond childhood memories or traumatic events. Other times, he glimpsed nonsensical moments from other people’s lives or witnessed strange mythological scenes he couldn’t begin to understand. They were always lucid and unnerving.
Rook sat up in bed, trying to tether himself to reality with the feel of the sheets beneath him and the sunlight creeping across the room, softly diffused by sheer curtains.
You are in the capital of Tellusun , he told himself. They died years ago . You are no longer a helpless child .
But hard as he fought to relinquish the memories conjured by the dream, he kept returning to the flow of bright crimson that trickled from his mother’s mouth. Shortly after the explosion, she had placed her beloved dagger in his small hands. It is yours now , she’d said with her last dregs of breath. I did not intend for you to have it so soon . But now I bestow it upon you in the hour of my death. Protect it well .
Rook frowned and balled his fists into the sheets. Self-loathing bubbled up in his chest. He’d done a terrible job of protecting the dagger in the end. He’d even died for it, and yet it still hadn’t been enough. For the hundredth time, he wondered if his mother had understood the significance of the weapon. Had she known she held the Dagger of Aris at her side, one of the four Relics used to banish the Titans from Revelore? Surely had she known, she never would’ve given it to a weak young boy.
And then there was the strange woman who had stood outside their carriage that night. He never learned the true purpose of their meeting, or what she’d said to his parents that night, but he’d learned who she was in the days that followed: Eleyera of Elorshin. The Mer Queen.
Saoirse’s mother.
Rook clenched his jaw unconsciously. He hadn’t realized how much she looked like Eleyera. A sharp pain needled his heart at the thought of Saoirse. He felt so many mixed emotions about her now, the primary one being acute hurt. But although he still felt the sting of her betrayal keenly, Rook couldn’t deny he was worried for her out in the Shujaa Desert.
He had initially been relieved when Saoirse left. It meant he could freely wander the halls of the palace without fear of running into her and facing the emotions the mere sight of her evoked. It meant the incessant urge to go to her and forsake all his wounded pride and kneel at her feet with his heart in his hands would no longer plague him every moment of the day. But instead of relief, his thoughts were mottled with anxiety. The days dragged on, and the same questions surfaced, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was concerned for Saoirse’s safety. After several days with no word from her, Rook was beginning to imagine the worst. But Saoirse wasn’t the only one occupying his mind. He thought of the dark-haired girl in his dream, too.
Raven.
His sister hadn’t spoken to him since the day Coarinth had been blown apart by Hasana’s rebels. The last time he’d seen her was right before the final trial when she’d met him and his fellow tributes under the arena. She’d ensured that Veila and Eros would follow through with their task to kill the remaining tributes. She’d been cold and unfeeling then, convinced by the Elders that Aurandel needed to win the Tournament by any measures necessary.
Any correspondence Raven might send to him would be immediately intercepted by Hasana’s guards, but he doubted she would send anything anyway. She was too shrewd to contact her missing brother in such an overt manner. As the ruler of Aurandel, Raven joined forces with the Terradrin king, Grivur, and declared war against the rebellion. Any move she made would be meticulously calculated. But he did not doubt Raven knew exactly where he was. She had spies all over Revelore, and she’d always protected Rook with unyielding determination. She was likely organizing a secret rescue mission at this very moment, thinking Rook had been captured as a prisoner of war who was being held by the enemy against his will.
The dream had been cut short before Rook could see his parents murdered right in front of him, but he still remembered every moment that followed. Amid the chaos, Raven had scooped Rook up and launched them in the air, soaring high above the carnage and gore below. He remembered looking over her shoulder and seeing bright blood spattered on the side of the carriage, his parents’ lifeless bodies gazing at the sky with glassy, unseeing eyes. He remembered the swarm of cloaked assassins who had ambushed them in the woods, their pale eyes glinting up at him and Raven as they flew to safety. They shot volleys of arrows at them, but Raven had dodged each one with expert precision. Even as Rook wailed in her arms, traumatized by his parents’ brutal slaying, Raven remained strong for him, flying back to Coarinth without as much as a single tear falling from her eyes.
Raven had always been protective of Rook, but her vigilance had increased tenfold after the attack. As the only surviving members of the royal family, they clung to each other in the days and years that followed. Rook had been a mere boy, so he grieved freely. Raven, on the other hand, mourned in secret for Rook’s sake and the sake of their kingdom. Having been crowned monarch of Aurandel at just nineteen, she was the new figurehead of a panicked nation that looked to an unflinching ruler to guide them through the attack with composure.
Rook’s heart broke thinking of his sister. Instead of having him at her side, Raven now had no one. To make matters worse, their last interaction had been less than ideal, heated with mistrust on both sides. The divide that had grown between them in the last few weeks was painful and vast, like a knife wedged between ribs. With every day that passed, Rook felt increasingly unmoored, torn between the love and loyalty he felt for his sister and the undeniable truth that an ancient power was coming for them all.
He needed to make Raven understand that fact, he realized. If she gave him the chance to explain every twisted detail of their ancestors’ legacy, she would realize who the true enemy was. And if he could persuade Raven to ally with them, the rebellion might actually stand a chance. The only problem was he had no idea how to contact her without Hasana knowing. Even if there was a slight chance Raven could be convinced to sign a peace treaty, there was no way in Hel Hasana would allow Rook to meet with his sister.
Rook swung his legs out of bed, his mind brimming with conflicting thoughts that made his head ache. The terracotta floors were cool under his bare feet as he crossed the room. Despite the unforgiving heat searinf the Clay City, the buildings were expertly designed to maintain a cool temperature. He’d become familiar with this chamber after pacing its length back and forth for hours on end, lost to his thoughts and overwhelmed by the collapse of everything he knew.
Rook stood before the gold-framed mirror leaning against one earthen wall and stared at his haggard reflection. Dark shadows bloomed below his eyes, evidence of his disturbing dreams and constant state of anxiety. Bandages were still wrapped around his abdomen, concealing the stab wound left by Selussa. With a hiss through his teeth, he carefully unwound the wrappings.
The wound was scabbed over now and the surrounding flesh was mottled with bruising. But although the wound no longer wept, it wasn’t healing like an ordinary injury. For one, it was not rust-colored like the rest of the scrapes and cuts that lingered from the final trial. It was black. Every time Rook touched it, pain radiated outward through his body from the point of contact as though Selussa’s blade had left a trail of needles in his tender flesh. He suspected Selussa had given him more than a death blow that day; she’d given him a curse.
Rook didn’t fully trust Hasana or Saoirse—not after they’d both betrayed him in some capacity—but his belief in Selussa and her unholy objectives superseded the internal wounds they’d both given him. He wholeheartedly believed the forces of every kingdom would be needed to defeat the coming darkness. They would worry about what would happen to Revelore’s political foundation after they survived. If there wasn’t a world to return to, none of it would matter.
After using a numbing salve made of golden root Hasana had given him for the pain, Rook wrapped fresh bandages around the wound, careful not to put any pressure on it. He slipped on a pair of loose trousers and a fresh tunic. He’d been given a brand-new wardrobe of traditional Tellusun clothing when he first arrived, though he’d had to cut holes in the shoulder blades of each tunic to accommodate his wings. The tunic he wore today was dyed an orange hue akin to a sunset, the collar hand-embroidered by the threads of gold House Yerimya was famed for.
Rook looked back at himself in the mirror and nearly scoffed. The bright, airy clothing made his skin look pallid and the circles under his eyes even more ghastly. With a resigned sigh, he pushed back dark, sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, now grown past his usual preferred length. He instinctively reached for the belt slung around his waist, feeling for the scabbard that always hung there like an old friend. His hand stopped short. Pain deeper than any flesh wound gouged through him as his fingers met the empty space where his mother’s dagger should’ve been.
The blade was long gone, of course.
Rook strode to the bedroom door and headed out, not knowing where he was going. All he knew was that he needed to leave this stale chamber and the remnants of a dream that still clung to its walls like cobwebs.