Chapter 35
Air fills my lungs. Precious air.
Lips are on mine. Clamped down, forcing it in, stretching my chest.
I choke and seize. They lift off.
A voice reaches me, rough and desperate.
“Ly, breathe.” It’s insistent. “Just breathe. Breathe.”
I spasm and cough, gasping in air on my own.
“Slowly,” the voice commands. “Slower.”
I struggle to obey, fighting my lungs to slow down and find a deeper rhythm.
My throat aches. I try to lift my hand to touch the ache, but my arm will not respond. I was dying, choking. Strangled. But now I’m alive. Alive. Was I saved in time?
Cool fingers lift my wrist, pressing deep into the thrum of my pulse.
I open my eyes, trying to push through the thick fog surrounding my mind. I’m not sure where I am, but I don’t think I’m in the tower. My eyes dart around the shadows, but I can’t force anything into focus.
“What is happening to you?” A cool palm cradles the back of my neck, an echo of the violent strap that squeezed a burning line across its front. The voice sounds strained. “Please, answer me.”
The words cut through the haze. I want to speak, to tell him I’m fine now. Air was all I needed. But my lips are numb. This bed smells wonderful—of cloves. My heavy eyes close.
Am I still in bed? It feels like it’s spinning. I register his voice again, faintly.
“Please…stay with me. Stay here.”
I try. I want to stay right here, in the clove-scented dark. My fingers twitch against sheets, trying to hold on to something.
The world is spinning. I cannot hold on.
I open my eyes to the clock across from my bed. It’s midnight. My birthday is over.
My pulse is racing. Something is off.
Sunrise-colored roses crowd every surface. The scent is oppressive, with just a hint of spoilage. The mounds cast odd shadows.
I sit up, slowly. In the mirror, my reflection is barely visible, my hair hanging around me in sleep-twisted waves. I get up the courage to slink out of bed, and check the door, the curtains, the balcony.
Nothing is unusual but the birthday bouquets.
Still, I’m afraid. Being here feels unsafe, as if the palace itself is about to come down on my head.
I consider getting the guards, or Rinalda, but what would I say?
The feeling doesn’t subside. I lie awake, tossing and kicking, until dawn.
I expect it to fade with the daylight, but over breakfast, all I can think about is how to get away.
I imagine putting down my sliced fruit, feigning a walk in the garden, and slipping under the wall.
But that’s trading imagined danger for real risk.
Where would I go? I would wander the city with no money, no map, no place to stay.
I would be dragged back within the hour.
The anxiety claws at me over the next few days. How can I get away from the Citadel? There is no land I can claim to want to see, no errand on behalf of the emperor I can be sent on. Daughters aren’t sent to experience the provinces, only sons.
I’ve never left Illios, and just like my sisters, I won’t until marriage.
The good news is, my father has announced me marriageable, and event invites start arriving. I accept every single one. Every luncheon and party represents a room full of lords who could take me from this place.
But simply attending events will take too long. If I wait out the year here, I’m sure I will die here.
I can’t go to my father and ask him to pair me quickly. He might withhold marriage, just to remind me it’s his choice. Pushing for what I want is akin to disobedience. I need to appear like I’m only concerned with taking the shape he prefers.
Which means I need to attract a man my father will say yes to. And based on my sisters, that means a shadoward lord, as high in his province’s succession as possible.
I dress in gowns lords seem to like: clinging silks, pale golds, sunrise pinks.
I oil my skin and let the sun warm its glow.
I take the mortar and pestle meant for crushing lobell and use it to mash red rose petals, creating a paste I work through my hair.
It makes the pale shade a little more rosy, to remind everyone I am of the flame.
I sleep little, and eat less, and I drop hints to staff, and ladies, and advisors, about lords I might be interested in.
My father receives some offers, but he sneers from his throne and rejects them with a blast of heat. I can tell he’s pleased as he sits back, the scorched lords scampering away. Just as I thought, he is happy to hold me back or move me out on the board, as long as he is the one in control.
I make myself as visible as possible, seeking the company of visiting nobles. I pretend not to notice when they admire me. I let them talk on and on, and giggle at their jokes, and brush against their skin. I let them imagine what it might be like if I belonged to them.
At last, Seran comes with news. The emperor has named my match: Cantor, son of the Sovereign of Nyvos, the shadoward wind-blown province. A second son, not far from the provincial seat. I have my path.
Cantor is handsome and charming, with rich olive skin and a laugh that catches my ear.
It takes two weeks for his people to arrive to witness the engagement blessing.
I will the priests to rush through the rituals as they spread ash on my stomach and bless me to have a sun-strong child before the Flame.
I take Cantor’s hand with half-sincerity.
My chest loosens for the first time since my birthday as my carriage rolls through the gates of the outer wall, bearing me to Nyvos for the wedding.
We travel shadoward. When the first snow falls, I exit the carriage and stand in the road with my hand outstretched, watching the flakes melt against my palm.
The cold bites through my clothes. I’m not used to the sting, but I celebrate every mile between me and the Burning City.
Behind me, Cantor’s horse stamps. When I look back, he is watching me from the saddle with his chin in his hand.
The night before the wedding, we sit alone together beside the fire in the castle he grew up in. His eyes are the color of a clear sky, his smile slow and easy.
He’s more than I could have hoped for.
“You’re more than I could have hoped for, Princess Lysandra.”
I’m shocked to hear the words I just thought spoken back to me. “In what way, Lord Cantor?”
“You’re brave.”
Given all the practiced deference I’ve shown him, this is not the compliment I expected. “Why brave?”
“You’ve come all this way, with a stranger, to marry. And it feels like you’re eager, rather than afraid.”
I stare a second, surprised he noticed. I turn my eyes to the roaring fire before us. I watched him the whole way here. He shared his furs with servants and bore the wind cutting through his clothes without complaint. “You’re not a stranger anymore.”
He grins. “No, I suppose not. Then I hope you won’t treat me as one tomorrow night.” His voice dips low. “We’ll only do what you want, of course, but I hope I can entice you to our marital bed.”
That makes my heart beat faster—I’m nervous, but I feel closer to peace than I have in months. I would like to take something for myself, not just use my body to attract a way out. Maybe, just maybe, I can find some joy in this marriage.
I smile shyly. He reaches for my hand. I let him take it. It’s warm and pleasant.
The door creaks behind me, and Cantor glances toward it. Before I can blink, my husband-to-be is on his feet. The air in the room swirls, the gust sudden and cold, pulling at my hair and scattering flaming embers from the fireplace to the rug.
I whirl, batting my hair down. A man, masked and cloaked in black, steps into the firelight.
The wind howls, yet Cantor’s voice rises above it. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
The intruder does not speak. He moves through the wind, fast and low, inside Cantor’s guard. After a short struggle and a hilt to the temple, Cantor is on the ground.
The man turns and stalks toward me.
I scream, but my voice doesn’t stop his blade.
He stabs me cleanly, once, through the ribs.
I fall off the chair and crawl toward the hearth. The shock dulls the pain, but only for a second. Blood spills down my front, the scattered embers burning my hands and chest, lighting my dress on fire.
I’m burning.
I’m burning.