Chapter 4
The Dredge’s sleek channel winds like a spine up the island, all the way to Skyhaven.
I slip into my courier boat, heart pounding, crates of disguised contraband packed tight beneath the tarp, just as the embedded crystals along the riverbank begin to pulse—soft at first, then in steady, synchronized waves.
The hull shudders. The current catches, boat lurching forward, drawn uphill like a tide pulled toward the moon.
The water glistens the whole way. Fifteen days ago, on Heartfillers, it was mesmerizing. Now, traveling there, I feel ill.
If this is a trap…
If I am caught…
I can’t think like that. I can’t pretend like I have options. Serafina needs medicine. Soon. This offer for so much gold—if it’s not a hoax—won’t come again. This will work. It has to.
The sea is a blur in the distance when I reach Skyhaven.
The air is thin, and it takes a moment to get used to.
The highborn city’s stone walls rise above me, cold and unyielding, and it feels less like protection and more like a threat.
The Citadel, which houses the palace, is in west Skyhaven, where many of my Mercyenforcer customers live, breaking rules by engaging in smuggling with me. Rules I’d be hanged for.
Once my boat is moored along the wharf, I heave my bags over my shoulder.
I slip between a cleft in the stone beneath the walls of the city and lower myself underground into the sewers, the fastest way to get across Skyhaven.
My sack catches on the jagged stone, but a rough tug gets it through.
Pungent muck races beneath the city like a river rushing to the ocean.
I follow the drainage tunnels past the rotting sewage with practiced, precise steps along the curbed perimeter, in the opposite direction of the rats.
The scent of flowers hits me, cloying, like spoiled meat wrapped in silk.
It turns my stomach but tells me I’m close.
In the Citadel there are no ration trucks, no labor stipends, and no homes held together by rotting wood and rusted nails.
Skyhaven is mortared together to be impenetrable, stone upon stone, as if the walls around the highborn city surround people worth protecting.
Evergild Gardens lies just beyond the Citadel gates, a sprawling display of privilege and perfume. It always reeks.
I won’t miss seeing this place.
When the tunnel veers sharply north, I search for a specific boulder jutting from the wall—solidly climbable.
I spot it, wedge my boots in the pockets in the rock.
Once I’ve hauled myself over it, I drop into a small hollow beneath a storm drain and immediately hear the city bustle just above me.
Shoving my body through the narrow gutter crushes my ribs, but it’s the growing stench that makes me want to retch.
Once my feet hit the cobbled street, I dig out the fish and shells from my bag, carefully separating them from the Heartfillers, brushing away any bits of brine.
I tuck the wrapped fillers into the storm drain, slipping them between the grates where they won’t be seen.
Then, I head for the alley where a wagon waits.
I fill it with the clams and fish, spreading them out like that’s all I have.
Then, I drag a tarp over the rest. With a glance over my shoulder, I shove the wagon toward the edge of the city grounds.
The route leads me to the outskirts of Evergild Gardens, where a wreath of retail shops, eateries, and city residences glisten in stonework and glass.
At Evergild’s center is a manicured sprawl of shimmering fountains and flowers so pristine it hardly feels real—a feast for the eyes.
I tear my gaze away from the sunlight, but the shiny and serpentine path winds through a nest of bloomed florals like it knows I’ll follow, luring me like a secret.
As if every detail of this place was designed to make me want what they have.
I usually turn off here for the village where most of my highborn customers are.
My deliveries don’t take me near the palace often.
I’ve been this close to the Citadel maybe twice before, but seeing all this without a Heartfiller burning in my chest is like seeing it for the first time.
Lowborn service workers move like shadows through the slick city streets, making and sorting deliveries, admiring the majesty of everything as they work.
I cut through statues of lovers posing at every turn, keeping my head down and resisting glaring at Skyborn’s flaunted freedom.
A freedom I don’t need or want. Little glass plaques are staked throughout the Gardens, glinting like dew in the grass.
Each one bears a scripted blessing for “permitted affection,” etched in looping gold script: To Feel Is to Be Chosen. Love, When Permitted, Is Sacred.
I skirt benches shaped like crescent moons that are placed precisely to frame the Citadel spires in the distance. Harp music drifts from nowhere. Vines coil around crystal trellises. Big flowers bloom in every bush. It’s hard to not reach for them and try to smell.
Children of the elite dash in my path chasing butterflies, while doves flit in and out of the soft, pink leaves of white birch trees, an experience Serafina will never have.
But she will have better ones…we will make better ones.
I detour to the outer path around the Gardens. But it is no better, crowded with pairs of lovers strolling. I maneuver in and around and past them, orienting myself well to my surroundings. It’s good to know how to get out of a place quickly.
Every shop has been draped in signs announcing the tournament, offering keepsakes and festive wear.
It starts in three days. These are big, decorated signs, not to be missed—painted with gold letters, some are glass, others are carved metal, a few twinkle with flickering lights using a magic I don’t understand.
They’re all wreathed in bunches of flowers of every size and color.
Except red.
There is no red in Skyhaven.
No fabric, no threads, no buttons, no florals or jewels.
There is no red allowed on the island.
Red is the color of love. Even for Skyborns, the Benevolent ruled the color goes too far. Warm pinks and purples get close. But wearing bold red, the color of blood, is punishable, highborn or not.
The rebels wore red. That’s the real reason, I bet.
When I reach the center of the park, the Citadel looms, not far in the distance.
On either side of it are defense towers and two smaller buildings: an arsenal and a shrine.
A series of smaller palatial buildings disappear beyond them.
I feel the edge of the note in my pocket.
I’ve never visited Citadel Hill specifically before, but it has to be near the Citadel, given the street name.
Swim with the current or drown. My pulse ticks faster. This is a risk. But the greater one is not taking this chance at all, ending up too sick for anyone to care, wrapped in a dusty old rug and thrown into the sea, not worthy of anything, even dead.
I pass another banner, this one inside the park, slung between lampposts, announcing the Tournament of Hearts in silver letters.
Beside it stands an oversized, gleaming Heartfiller on a raised pedestal, catching the light like cut glass.
The crystal seems to shimmer more as I near, humming softly, waiting to be touched.
A gold plaque beneath it reads Entries. At the base of the pedestal is a handwritten sign, leaning against the pillar.
Deadline for entries extended.
Seven days extra rations provided for each entrant’s family.
Touch to enter.
More rations. I swallow a dry breath. Our hunger is a weapon the Benevolent brandishes against us. Someone slams into the back of me, knocking me forward.
“Out of the street.” The Skyborn pinches his nose before digging his elbow into the ribs of the girl he’s with.
She laughs. They disappear inside the park, connected by their bare hands.
As if one of them is part of the other. As if there is something special about their touch.
When his mouth closes in on hers, I look away.
A fellow lowborn girl—Grainfolk by the looks of her clothes: apron wrapped around her trousers, burlap gloves—tagged with a blue tie on her arm as well, approaches the pedestal, eyeing the rations sign.
She lingers, pulling at her clothes, and we meet eyes.
With Mercyenforcers standing sentry at the Citadel gate, I shake my head imperceptibly.
The Benevolent’s stupid games are not worth our self-respect.
The girl’s gaze shifts from me to the ground as she straightens the tie on her tattered tunic, waiting for me to pass by. It feels like a dagger through the heart. It shouldn’t. She has to eat. I can’t judge her choices. But when I pass her, I realize I’m white-knuckling my wagon.
A vanguard of iron spikes to the receiving line of the Citadel is only paces away once I clear the Gardens.
Mercyenforcers oversee an unloading dock.
There is another tourney banner encouraging people to get their tickets to the opening ceremony hanging behind them.
When it is my turn, I approach the tallest of the guards and show him the address on the slip of paper.
His stare darts from the rag tied on my arm to the seal on the paper, where it lingers.
“Identification.”
“Axira Merreri. Saltblood.”
“Another dozen blocks, that way.” He points to a narrow road running along the Citadel gate. I hurry in that direction.
“Get your tourney seats right here!” a merchant shouts, and several answer his call.
I avoid their eyes, shrinking into the crowd, which buzzes with people in and out of pleasure parlors and sensory shops.
There are Skyborns everywhere, milling about, constantly touching one another, as if expressing love keeps gold in their pockets. An odd cinch bites between my ribs.
Petite tables outside of a bakery are full; two women sip from the same cup at the same time, talking, laughing—not one of their expressions is hollow.
Not one of them looks like a shell of a human.
I try to picture Serafina’s face when she’s not on a Heartfiller or trying to shake some leeching sickness.
I try to picture her dancing under a cloudless sky, laughing when she wants to, crying when she needs to, but the image doesn’t come together.
I don’t know what that kind of freedom looks like.
But maybe freedom isn’t a dream of a certain place—maybe it’s just any life without chains.
Out from underneath the Benevolent’s watchful eyes is an entirely new life. I keep walking, looking for number eleven, when the stately residence appears like the answer to a prayer at the end of the road. I hand the address to its guard.
“Unload there.” He indicates a stack of crates against a loading dock.
“Uh, I’m supposed to meet with someone directly,” I tell him. “They said it was urgent. Sent this request in the dead of night, delivering it by hand.”
He takes the note, studying it again. “Wait here.”
The man who marches out of the residence several minutes later is definitely highborn.
His shoes alone are finer than everything I own.
Reddish-brown hair tumbles over his shoulders.
He runs a hand through it as he approaches.
The stitching of his coat shines like real gold, and a gleaming gem glitters from his left hand.
He’s not just anyone at Court. Signet rings are worn only by the Benevolent’s family.
“My prince?” Eyes to the ground. I refuse to bow. I’ve never bowed to anyone, and I won’t start now.
“Look at me.”
“Lowborn don’t look at highborn in the eyes…my prince.”
“I’m not talking to the top of your head. Look at me. I command it.”
I meet his eyes. There is kindness in them. Not what I thought I’d see. “Yes, my prince.”
The curve of his mouth tells me I’ve made a mistake. “The prince is my cousin. I’m Lucent. And you are?” His fingers work at the fine detail of his family coat. The Skyborn crest is embroidered on his chest: a fist holding a heart.
“I think you know who I am,” I say, swallowing, hoping I haven’t been too bold. Hoping this isn’t a trap.
His brows bounce before he glances over his shoulder. “You received my request.”
“I did.”
“Show me.”
I unfold the note from my pocket. He glances at it, smoothing his hands on his pants one too many times.
His long hair finally moves out of his face and there’s an odd look in his eye.
But his stringy bangs sweep back over them before I can get a better glance.
I stand straighter, watching our surroundings.
“Over here.” He guides me farther from his Mercyenforcers, farther from the exit.
Once we are alone, he stands very close.
I scour the ground for lines, for rules about where to stand.
Three feet. Always. But there are none. I take a giant step back to put some distance between us, my heart thudding.
“I see crates of fish,” he says, eyeing my cart. “Where is what I asked for?”
“You must think I’m stupid.” I bite my tongue too late. Talking to him this way is going to get me killed. I lower my eyes, hoping it helps.
“Look at me. The request was clear.” He looks around, and a warning chill races up my skin. “You were supposed to bring it here.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to make it out of here alive.”
He fidgets with the ring on his left fourth finger, now avoiding my eyes. Like he’s lying. Like this actually is a setup.
“I don’t see what I want on you,” I say.
“I have it all prepared, but—” He glances over his shoulder again, and I swallow a dry breath. I don’t like this.
All caution leaves my body, reckless audacity buzzing through me. “I get what I came for. Then, I’ll take you to what you want. No guards. Just us. But we do it now.”
“Where?”
“Nice try.”
He scratches his eyelid, and the curtain in the window above flutters.
“Or I leave,” I say. “I haven’t broken any rules.”
“No. Please. I need this to work.” He whistles for his Mercyenforcers and then dismisses them.
A metal transport glides to us. In the back are several steel drums. He pulls one open and gold gleams inside.
I climb in beside him, my heart beating harder than it ever has.
Loud enough I’m sure he can hear it. But his last words ring sharpest in my ears.
“Why do you need this to work?” I ask.
The ride juts into motion. He smirks.
And I realize I’m not the only person scheming.