Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
The morning of the Test of Wisdom arrives with the uncanny sensation that I might be only hours from my own death.
Heavy clouds blot out the sun, leaving nothing but a dim, struggling glow at the far edge of the sky. I dress quickly, scarfing the breakfast laid out for me by a servant who slipped an extra blade inside the linen napkin she brought with my eggs and soda bread.
The blade is the same swirling blue steel as the others Wolf gave to me, the best forgery of Málmar steel I’ve ever laid eyes on—and nestled with it is another tiny stave.
My fingers shake, interpreting each runic shape silently. Two words, the figures for each letter branching out from that straight central shaft.
Stay alive.
If he weren’t so infuriating, the gesture might be almost… sweet. But I know Wolf better than he probably thinks I do by now and chuck the stave into the fire.
Still, there’s no such thing as too many blades.
I strap every last one of them to my body. Three blades, all tucked into sheaths down my waist and legs, plus the tiny one Talon gave me in the gauntlet sheath inside my left forearm. I let myself stop to warm my hands in front of the crackling hearth before heading for my door.
The warmth chases away the lingering stiffness of the night in my joints. At least if I have to fight, I’ll be limber.
Outside my room, Talon waits—and Aoife is right beside them.
Both their faces are tense.
I raise a brow. “Good morning.” Unease roils my stomach at the tension rippling off them. “Who pissed in your coffee this morning?”
“This was waiting for you.” Talon nods to the basket at Aoife’s feet.
A heavy drape of linen lies over it, the way servants might cover a delivery of bread or fruit. But the set of Talon’s jaw is too tight for it to be anything that simple, and I reach for the cover.
Rats.
Dozens of them, huge and gray and horrible.
All with their heads sliced neatly off.
My stomach heaves, the smell of musk and fur and fear filling my nose. I reach out a hand for the wall and fight down the urge to heave up my breakfast.
Their eyes search mine. As if they know there’s something I’m not telling them. “A servant delivered it right after the girl I sent to bring your breakfast,” Talon says.
“A threat?” I grit out. The reek of dead animal is vile.
“Probably.” Aoife nods. “My bet’s on Oona.” Her eyes flash to mine. “She knows how to mess with people’s heads. Trust me.”
Well, I’m not letting her mess with mine.
“Dump those down the privy,” I tell Talon. “Or better yet, have someone scatter them in the main hall. They stink.” And I have somewhere I need to be.
Pride warms in Talon’s brown eyes, and they nod. “It’ll be done by the time you get back.” They hold my eyes. “And you will be coming back.”
That’s not fear prickling up my spine. I refuse to feel that.
Not when whoever sent this is out there, waiting for me.
“Lead the way.”
Gardai line the main halls. All of them wear their crisp, pressed crimson-and-black uniforms, not a drop of blood or grime on their boots or their swords.
The banners hung from thick beams along the arching stone ceilings sway above, and the doors I ran through weeks ago when I fled to the garden are swung wide open now.
Outside, the shimmer and gleam of nobles nearly blinds me.
There are hundreds of them, wrapping around the castle grounds in a rainbow of silks and furred cloaks and glittering gems. Rubies and onyx are everywhere in the hazy morning light. It’s as though they actually believe loyalty can protect them.
There are no hints I can see of what the Test of Wisdom will be.
No obstacle course, no battlegrounds, no stands or dais over the ruins of the rose garden.
There’s only a path, kept clear and empty, twining around the back of the castle to a stable yard that stinks of dirt and animals.
Faint sunbeams gild the yard and the nobles and the dozens of horses with bells jangling from their harnesses.
Grooms and aides stand around the nobles who climb up into the saddles.
My breath quickens when I see that a single carriage waits, shimmering in mother-of-pearl paneling that catches and dances in the light, with the five remaining noble daughters waiting outside its polished doors.
Oona, Aisling, Neve, Eavan, and Saraid—the noble daughter who threw coins to the crowds in Quayside, and the only one who wasn’t training with the others yesterday. Her catlike eyes are hard and sharp in a way that reminds me of Wolf’s face when his shields are up.
Caitria, the youngest of us, is already dead.
Dew clings to the chilled stone where mist must’ve swept in overnight, and nervous energy pulses through my veins.
Stay alive.
I imagine the rough scrape of Wolf’s voice on those two words in my head.
Now all I have to do is make it through a carriage ride with five noble daughters who all actively want to kill me—slowly and probably painfully, if their glares are anything to go on.
Wonderful.
Talon’s jaw clenches as the noble daughters climb into the carriage ahead of me. Aoife hangs back, watching from the edge of the castle, and Talon’s voice lowers toward me. “I can’t go in there with you. Take this.” Their hand skims the side of my tunic, where a deep pocket cuts into the fabric.
I don’t dare fish out the faint weight of what feels like a nut or some kind of dried berry. Not in front of everyone here. “What is it?”
“Insurance. I meant to give it to you earlier. In case anyone ever takes you and I can’t get to you in time. You’re not trained to hold up under torture, and believe me, that’s exactly what will happen if the Lady of Shadows ever sets her sights on you.”
My blood chills.
“Tor—?”
A warning snaps in their stare. I swallow down my question and look ahead to where the last noble daughter in front of me climbs up into the carriage.
My turn.
I take a step forward, reaching up for the paneling for balance.
A lithe hand slams the door in my face, nearly taking my fingers off as I jump back.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap.
“A mouth like that, and she thinks she could ever be High Queen?” the noble daughter nearest the window sneers—Neve. The one who threw a knife at my head in the hall a few days ago. Her lips twist into an ugly scowl. “Quayside rat.”
Loathing roils in my veins.
Oona of Dunluce doesn’t bother to hide her smirk, peering out the window at me from beside Neve. “Enjoy your present this morning?”
Aoife was right.
I lift my chin, glaring back—and imagine my blades sticking in each of their chests.
Soon.
Oona raps at the inner wall of the carriage and the groom at its front cracks a whip at the horses.
For a moment, one of the noble daughters inside meets my eyes, and something like regret flashes in her cat-eye gaze, topaz flickering at her neck and ears—Saraid.
But the look is gone before I can be sure, and her golden hair disappears as the horses carry the carriage off.
Laughter floats from inside as it rolls away.
Talon curses. They glance at Aoife reluctantly, standing at the edge of the yard. “You know where they’re going?”
“The old fencing yards. On the other side of—”
“Yeah. I know where it is.”
Talon tosses a coin to a groom leading a gray mare toward the crowd of servants following the carriage. The boy catches it and tosses the reins to Talon.
They turn to me. “You can ride, right?”
Stubborn pride answers for me, still smarting at the door slammed in my face. “How hard can it be?”
Harder than it looks, actually.
I almost go flying at the bounce in the mare’s trot as I follow Talon’s stolen black gelding down the winding path leading from the castle to the far back side of the walled grounds.
We go past the gardens, picking up our pace behind the carriage as we follow to where the castle grounds brush up against the hills rising from the sea cliffs and stretch along the back of the city like a spine.
Not stolen, I can practically hear Talon groan. Borrowed.
The carriage ahead catches the dim light, past a curve in the path, and the breath slips out of me as I fight for balance on the slowing horse’s bouncing gait.
Whoa.
The fencing yard is the size of the Quayside market and is ringed with pavilion stands draped with fluttering dyed linens so fine that light filters through in gauzy beams. Each one is thronged with bodies, craning out over the ledges, as our horses carry us into the yard.
I hear the rattle of coins and the bets that follow as Talon slides off the horse, then offers out a hand to help me down to my unsteady feet.
Cold, assessing eyes climb all over me.
There are nobles from throughout our isle, of course, and even some Leonese, regal sweeps and swirls of shimmering dark ink marking their arms, from the lands at the far edges of Cymrea’s southern borders.
Most of our coffee comes from the Leon Republic.
Spices too. There’s hardly been a bucket of the precious blue crystal azurite dug out from Eireann’s western mines since the Seven Wells ran dry, and while the Leon Republic won’t trade theirs, some say the Málmar Islands are still brimming with it.
I notice two pairs of obsidian eyes widening on me then—a pair of Leonese envoys in brocade trousers and rich red-and-gold cloaks.
A circlet of gold rings the tall Leonese woman’s head, the man at her side shorter and stockier.
Talon nods subtly to the man, and the woman’s dark gaze jumps to me, to the prince, and back again.
My skin tingles, and an eerie feeling not unlike fingers along the edge of my mind makes every hair stand up down the length of my arms. Those tattoos… they almost look like whirls of magic inked into their skin. Is such a thing possible?
Talon’s hand finds my wrist. “Let them look at you,” they murmur. “Don’t show fear.”
A cool inhale steadies my hammering pulse, but a growing wariness spreads through me. I keep my voice low enough so no one but Talon can hear me and whisper, “Are they mages?”