THREE
The trouble is that an Icaros never goes down without a fight. And Kieren is an Icaros in spirit. He snags my ankle as he falls, and I shout as we go down in a heap. It’s still early in the eleventh month, and there’s already enough powdery snow to nearly swallow us.
A sentry stationed at the base of the stairs hurries over, frowning at Kieren. The guard offers me his hand, eyes darting around like he shouldn’t risk the distraction of helping me up. “Allow me to assist you, my lady.”
Indignity upon indignity.
I force myself to thank the sentry anyway while Kieren laughs in the snowbank. The guard quickly returns to his post, his gaze sweeping the grounds for signs of real threats.
Kieren is still howling when he makes it to his feet. He brushes snow from his coat, then the flakes dusting his dark hair, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why does he get to call you—”
“Don’t finish that question,” I warn him.
He holds up his palms. “I surrender.” His mouth twitches like he wants to tack on my future title again. “Shall we?”
His restraint is a small miracle.
“There are posterns throughout the city.” He points to an arched opening carved into the stone wall near the gates, a swirl of blue light emanating from inside. “I hear there are a few needing repair, but we can take any working one wherever you want to go.”
I wrinkle my nose. Of course Velesont would create plenty of the connected portals in a city this size, but I’ve never liked the way postern travel feels—like being doused in ice water so cold it seeps all the way to your bones. “Let’s walk.”
Kieren doesn’t argue with me, even when one of the guards at the gatehouse begs us to reconsider. Given how long she takes to open the gates, and the fact that coaches have fallen out of fashion except for formal events, I suspect the woman doesn’t remember how to operate them.
The castle gates open to a spacious avenue of private estates, each building featuring the same black marble exterior with lines of gold and stars etched into the stone leading up to its domed glass roof.
Mansions with columns and fences and fountains glare down at the city below, each the size of an overinflated ego.
Sentries are stationed at each of their gates, their uniforms bearing a horned wolf, the sigil of Order Marius, as if the wealth past the wrought iron deserves to be protected to the death.
Wind nips my cheeks as I stare at the estates, and I fluff the fur trim of my coat to sit higher. “They’re nearly as big as the palace.”
“Homes to lesser royals,” Kieren whispers so the nearby guard can’t hear. “The ones the king needs to keep an eye on.”
But doesn’t want living in his own residence. They aren’t mansions. They’re gilded cages for royal hostages.
“Is everyone in Wintour rich?” I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it.
“Hardly.” He snorts. “But the king has plenty of favorites in the other orders.”
“I can’t imagine leaving Damalis for this,” I admit.
“It’s considered an honor to live here at his request,” he says gruffly. His calculating gaze falls like dominoes on the sprawling estates lined up before us.
Being given a house like that is the kind of honor that might catch the attention of my otherwise oblivious sister.
I frown. “You wouldn’t actually move here, though.”
His head snaps to face me. “No.”
But he would. We both know my sister would prefer to live in the capital. Why do people always try to change for love?
Some of the houses bear the symbols of other orders. We pass ones marked with the sigils of Calix, Leontia, even Marius.
“Are we the only patron line that doesn’t have an estate close enough to kiss the king’s ass upon demand?” I ask as we reach a gate bearing the hydra of Velesont.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he says.
A few streets farther down, the stately homes give way to rows of elegant town houses lined up like trophies.
Each still features a dark exterior to honor the Stars, but the black marble has been exchanged for stone, actual gold for paint.
The entire capital is cloaked in darkness, broken only by gilded lines and domes of glass.
The effect is a city that feels trapped in endless night, even at midday.
It’s nothing like the simple wood buildings and limestone estates in Damalis.
Although in both cities, we use heavy draperies and shrouds to protect the sky from our light pollution. A sign of respect to the Stars.
Guards stroll the streets. There’s less security here than near the palace, but I can feel them assessing us.
Kieren fiddles with a carved bit of bone as we walk, his thumb tracing the pegasus etched into it out of habit.
He chatters away as I drink in the city, sharing everything he knows about the capital.
Which apparently is a lot. He visited with Broderic last year when my brother attended his first annual council meeting as patron.
Kieren points out the way the city is stacked like the towering astrolatory at its peak, descending in tiers of power.
The vespers sit at the top, because whoever reads the Stars first has all the leverage.
Followed by the palace and the king himself to control the vespers and what they know.
Then the aristocrats, the rich and the businesses that cater to them, and, at the bottom, the poor souls truly responsible for keeping it all running.
“Shouldn’t the astrolatory be for everyone, at least?” It seems unfair.
“It’s strategic,” he says, leading me toward a bustling city block. “The Weeping Sisters prevent attacks by sea.”
I roll my eyes. That’s why I nearly froze to death last night? Because the waterfalls serve as added security for what’s already the most inaccessible point in Antares? “No one has attacked us since the Last War.”
Of course, that’s usually the case.
A shadow passes over his face, but he shrugs and it’s gone.
Past the wealthy residential district, the city opens into the wide High Street lined on either side by shops and cafés. Shoppers spill out their doors, loaded down with packages wrapped in brown paper, bags hooked on their arms.
The morning sun catches the jewelry displayed in the nearest window. Poison rings with their delicate clasps opened to reveal hidden compartments, their designs refined for court but lethal at dinner parties. Next to them, a jewel-encrusted cane showcases its hidden dagger.
Maybe this is why Broderic doesn’t want any of us going into Wintour alone to explore. Beautiful things feel deadly here. Even the jewelry is made for those with too much money and even more enemies.
Although I suffer from neither problem, I still shiver as I drink it all in.
I’ve heard stories—everyone has—about the mysterious or sudden deaths that seem to plague particular bloodlines.
Mostly Order Calix, even if Velesont seems to be similarly afflicted.
I suppose when you control all the commerce and transportation, you make plenty of enemies—even ones related to you.
The next shop is less dangerous, only hawking the latest fashions. Velvet overcoats with matching embroidered gloves, leather breeches, lace gowns with high necks that are far from modest.
By the time I’m forced to drag Kieren away from a display of corsets and frilly undergarments, I’ve relaxed a little, despite the prickling at the back of my neck that feels as though we’re being watched by the sentries posted on every city block.
“Look at that.” He stares longingly at a new astrolabe, one with a dial that sends and delivers messages. His is so old that it can only send a simple summoning signal.
I lean closer to read the attached price tag, my fingers brushing the few silver crowns in my pocket, but I nearly choke at the eye-watering price. “You could buy one of the houses outside the palace for that!”
“So, I won’t find it in my boot on Twelvetide?” he teases.
“Maybe in two or three hundred years.” Because that’s how long it would take me to save the money for it, but he just laughs.
“There’s Icaros.” Kieren jabs the glass, pointing at a model tucked in the window and shooting me a wide smile. “Just think, by this time tomorrow, you’ll bear that mark.”
The words dig a pit in my stomach. The models are three-dimensional versions of the constellations I saw etched into the Royal Astrolatory’s alcoves last night.
My mark will look more like those engravings, the Stars choosing where to brand it into my flesh.
If I didn’t fuck up my chances of receiving it last night.
What if the Stars refuse to endow me like I refused to kill the oscen?
I shake the thought off. No sense dwelling on what’s done.
“Let’s keep going.” I tug his sleeve, wanting to fill the hole my nerves have carved into my stomach. “I’m hungry.”
His eyes widen. “You can’t possibly be hungry already.”
“I’m gastronomically ambitious.” And a total stress eater.
He snorts, then scans the street before grabbing my hand and dragging me toward a nearby coffee shop.
We get into the short line of customers waiting to place an order.
The man in front of me shifts on his feet, twisting his hands like he might panic before he gets a chance to order.
His partner brushes a soothing hand down his arm, then laces his fingers through his.
The others in line seem equally on edge.
I look up at the menu and balk. It’s not simply coffee. They’re using nochtimetry to infuse each drink with a slight dose of magic. And the price reflects it. No wonder we’re required to send our entire crop for distribution.
“Is this legal?” I whisper to Kieren, watching the woman behind the bar spoon grounds into a muslin-lined pot. Its ceramic exterior is painted with intersecting lines and shapes in a beautiful, intricate pattern.
He shrugs, still studying the options on the menu. “It is if they have a license from Order Calix. If there’s money to be made off magic, they’ll approve it.”