Legendary

  Everything on the other side was as pale as the crushed wings of white doves or as gold as fallen stars. Unlike the Church of Legend, this looked like a true temple. And the young man who’d opened the door looked almost exactly like one of the godlike star statues on the steps.

  32

  Tella had half expected to see Caspar or Nigel or another of Legend’s players, but this young man was foreign to her. It felt like further confirmation the game had turned very real, or that Tella was on the wrong path. She believed that to win Caraval all she needed to do was find her mother’s Deck of Destiny—but believing something didn’t make it true.

  Doubt nipped at her as she stepped inside the Temple of the Stars.

  The man who opened the door really could have been a carving come to life. His arms and legs, and the parts of him that Tella could see peeking out from all the leathers covering his chest and thighs, looked more like stone than muscle. Maybe he didn’t tower quite so high as the statues outside the sanctuary, but he was taller than Dante. The sort of tall that made Tella tilt her neck to fully see his face.

  She swallowed a gasp as she caught sight of his cheek.

  The right half of his face was almost too flawless, from his square jaw to his aquiline nose and the dark kohl around his upswept eyes. But all Tella saw when she looked at the left half was the brand burned into his cheek—a brutal eight-pointed star with a symbol in the center made of intricate knots that Tella didn’t recognize.

  She tried to avert her eyes, but she was certain he caught her staring. As if to taunt her, he traced the ruthless lines of the star with the tip of one finger.

  But though his face was branded, a silver circlet crowned his brow, and a royal-blue cloak draped from his right shoulder held in place by a silver pin that matched the signet ring on the finger he’d used to trace his cheek. He must have been in a position of power, which only made her more nervous. If the temple was as wicked as everyone said, this severe young man must have done unspeakable things to rise to the top of it.

  “I’m Theron.” With one simple bend of his wrist, as if used to having others follow his commands, he bade Tella and Dante walk deeper into the foyer.

  The ceiling arched above them like a series of interconnected wings, all black with pinpricks of gold clustered together like constellations. Below, the octagonal space was primarily filled by a triple-tiered fountain that dripped candlelight. The floors were white soapstone; shiny enough to reflect the glowing gate covering the double doors at the back wall.

  It felt like the sort of place a person was meant to whisper. Tella had the sudden urge to take off her slippers, as if they might soil the spotless floors. Though for all its glimmer and shimmer, there was something insidious about the place. More stone statues lined the walls, as lifelike as the ones in the front, only these were all frozen with expressions of shock, horror, and pain.

  “Our temple is fueled by ancient magic from the stars,” Theron said. “The vaults beneath are more secure than any in the world but occasionally fools think they can break in and steal from them.”

  “Good thing we’re not planning on stealing anything,” said Tella.

  Theron didn’t so much as crack a smile. “What exactly do you want here?”

  “I have a question about—”

  “If you’re here for the game, we do not possess any clues,” Theron cut in. “We are also not a tourist attraction like many of the other basilicas. To move beyond this hall and have your questions answered, you’ll have to prove your motives aren’t tainted and that you truly seek the stars.” He led Tella and Dante farther in to a lone ivory pedestal topped off by a hammered copper bowl, old and battered compared to everything else. “For our examination, we require one drop of blood.”

  Dante side-eyed Tella.

  But she didn’t need him to remind her how powerful a drop of blood could be. Dante and Julian had used blood to heal her after the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens had attacked her, but blood could also be used to steal things, like days.

  “I only need a prick of one finger.” Theron held out his right hand, revealing a black-banded starburst-shaped opal ring, sharp enough to slice skin, and bitingly familiar.

  It looked remarkably like her mother’s.

  Elantine was right.

  Tella’s eyes shot down to her hand. Both rings’ stones were raw and starburst shaped. But the color of Theron’s was different. His stone was black, with embers of pulsing blue and threads of green. Tella’s was fiery, glowing lavender surrounded by a center of burning cherry with a thin line of gold down the middle that made it look like a spark about to catch flame. But even before it had shifted colors after her mother’s disappearance, it had been much lighter than Theron’s.

  “Your ring,” Tella asked, “is it just for pricking fingers, or does it represent something else?”

  “You haven’t earned the answer to that question.”

  “What if I have a similar ring?” Tella held out her hand.

  Dante’s gaze narrowed and landed on Tella’s finger.

  A crease formed between Theron’s kohl-lined eyes. “How did that come into your possession?”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  “She should not have given that to you.”

  “Why not? What does it mean?”

  “It means she owes a debt to us that has not been paid.”

  Dante tensed beside Tella.

  This wasn’t good news, but it was better than no information at all.

  “The ring on your finger is a key,” Theron said. “If it truly belonged to your mother, she must have placed something in our vaults that can only be retrieved with the ring. However, the color of it signifies it’s been cursed.”

  “How do I break the curse?”

  “The only way is to fulfill her debt,” Theron answered flatly. “Until that payment is made, the key on your finger will not work to open her vault.”

  “Tella—” Dante’s tone hinted at a warning.

  But whatever it was, Tella didn’t want to hear it. Her mother had not only been here but something of hers was in the vaults. Maybe it was the Deck of Destiny Tella needed to find. Or maybe it was something else that would tell Tella more about who her mother had been.

  “What does she owe?” Tella asked. “What did she place in your vaults?”

  “I cannot answer those questions,” said Theron. “But the ring can. It has a memory, activated by blood. If it truly was your mother’s, your blood should bring forth a vision of what she promised us. All you need to do is prick your finger with one of its tips and drop the blood in the bowl.”

  “Tella—” Dante growled. “I don’t think you should—”

  But Tella was already pressing the tip of her finger to her mother’s old ring. Red pooled, rose-petal bright, before falling into the copper basin and turning white.

  Tella held her breath as the milky drop of blood transformed into a fog that reflected the image of a woman standing in front of a bowl exactly like the one before Tella. But it wasn’t just any woman. It was Tella’s mother, Paloma. She was older than she’d looked in the picture Tella had seen in Elantine’s Most Wanted—she appeared to be around the same age as when she’d disappeared from Trisda. But she looked so much harsher than Tella remembered. There were no hints of her enigmatic smile, no sparkle in her dark eyes. This was a callous version of her mother that Tella was unfamiliar with.

  In the vision, Paloma wasn’t dressed in a sheet like Tella, or if she was, it was concealed by the dark blue cloak she wore. She appeared to be speaking with someone, but whoever she spoke with was merely a shadow.

  “Paradise the Lost,” said the shadow. Its voice sounded like smoke come life. Thick and heavy and stifling. “I thought you swore to never make another bargain with us.”

  “Vows are made to broken,” Paloma said. “Apparently spells are, too, because the one you placed on my cards to
conceal them grew weak.”

  “That’s why we suggested putting them in our temple vaults, with the other items we’re holding for you.”

  “Suggested?” Paloma snorted. “I thought you said I couldn’t put them in my vault.”

  “No, we said you would need to pay an extra price.”

  Paloma stiffened.

  “So you do remember,” said the voice. “And since we are generous, the offer still stands.”

  “For the same price as before?”

  “Yes. Be grateful we are not requiring more to protect such a terrible item.”

  “What more could you ask from a mother than to give up her firstborn child?”

  “We could ask for your second-born as well.”

  “I’d never give them both to you,” Paloma said. “But you can have my second-born.”

  “What use to us is your second child,” asked the shadow, “aside from being a pretty ornament?”

  “I’ve seen the future. She’ll possess great power. If you don’t believe me, I have the cards to prove it. Though I think we’re all better off if I never use them again.” Paloma lifted her chin stubbornly. “The curse imprisoning the Fates is losing power. It weakens every time the cards are used.”

  “That’s not our concern.”

  “It should be. More Fates will escape. Let me use your vaults to hide these cards while I search for a way to destroy them. Unless you want this place of worship to become the Temple of the Fallen Star—because I guarantee that if the Fates return, they will only allow people to worship them.”

  The shadowy figured appeared to darken, turning from smoky gray to almost black.

  “Very well,” it said at last. “Give us your second-born daughter and we will let you use our vaults to hold your accursed cards.”

  “Done.” Paloma used a knife to slice her palm. “My daughter—”

  “No!” Tella knocked the copper bowl from the pedestal, destroying the image before it could show her any more awful things. “My mother had no right to do that!” Tella shook her head, ripping her fingers through her curls as she backed away. “Even if that image is real, I’m not hers to give away.”

  “And yet,” Theron said, “she already has. It’s been pledged in blood. Once you—”

  Tella started running before Theron could finish. He said once you, which made it sound as if Tella had to do something before they could take her, and she didn’t plan on allowing that to happen, ever. Tella would never belong to anyone.

  Theron didn’t follow. Maybe that meant it had been a test and that what she’d seen wasn’t real, or maybe he didn’t have to follow, because people only chased after things they didn’t already possess.

  From the sound of it Dante did not pursue her either, though Tella didn’t spare so much as a look behind her as she raced down the Temple of the Stars’s steps. Her worthless sheet nearly ripped in her haste, but she didn’t stop running.

  Scarlett had been right. Her mother had been worse than her father. At least he’d waited until Scarlett was of age before selling her off like a goat. Tella’s chest had never felt so hollow. She’d sacrificed everything for her mother, risked her freedom and her life, believing her mother still loved her and needed her. But the truth was she’d never cared. Not only had she left Tella, she’d given her away like a used dress.

  Tella could have kept running, but her slippers were starting to tear, and the roads had turned unfamiliar.

  Uneven grass, made dark by the night, rubbed against her shoes. Rather than incense and oils, the air smelled of thick beers and tart berry ciders. With a quick sweep of her eyes Tella saw temporary stages, and theatrical curtains hanging from trees.

  She’d stumbled into a park. But Tella had no idea to what part of the city it belonged.

  Not the Spice Quarter. Everything was far too pretty. From the street vendors’ deep-fried confections dusted with crushed violets and sugar to the bejeweled dresses worn by the women and the shining weapon-belts ornamenting the men. Only the swords on the belts did not look real, and neither did the women’s jewels.

  It seemed she’d run right into the middle of a small festival made of park-plays, or some sort of fair to celebrate the empress’s upcoming birthday—perhaps for all of the Valendans not participating in Caraval. Curious gazes were moving in her direction. But Tella doubted anyone would mistake her for one of the performers. Unless these particular plays involved a female sacrifice, Tella was dressed entirely wrong. The women here were all covered up by bell-sleeved gowns with flowing skirts, while Tella had naked legs and exposed arms. Suddenly she was freezing. Now that she’d stopped, fatigue hit her like a wave of ice, leaving her shaken and out of breath, without a properly working heart to warm her up.

  Spying a vendor selling cloaks, Tella snatched a dark one that looked about her size.

  “Thief!” screamed the vendor.

  Tella started to sprint.

  “Give that back!” A heavy set of arms knocked her into the ground, and a weighty chest pressed her into the rough grass.

  “Getoffame!” She tried to wriggle free. “Youcanhaveyourfilthyfabricback!”

  The vendor rolled off her, and yanked the cloak from her shoulders. But he left a hand on her neck, and squeezed. Hard and tight. Until Tella felt the cords of her throat rub together. “Dirty thief.” He kept her face pinned to the ground. “This will teach you not to—”

  “Let go of her!” roared a voice.

  The hand was ripped from Tella’s neck. Then arms were scooping Tella up, pulling her tight to a pounding chest that smelled of ink and sweat and fury.

  “I believe it’s against the law to kill someone for borrowing a cloak,” Dante snarled at the vendor.

  Splotches of angry red colored the man’s bearded face. “She wasn’t borrowing it. She stole it!”

  “That’s not what it looked like to me,” Dante said. “The cloak’s in your hands now. I never saw it in hers. But I did see you trying to kill her.”

  The vendor sputtered a string of curses.

  “Give us the garment and I won’t have you arrested,” Dante said.

  Tella could only see his chest from this angle, but she imagined he looked like a warrior—standing there without a shirt in all his godlike splendor and dressed like a vengeful star just fallen from the heavens.

  “Fine,” grumbled the man. “I don’t want the soiled thing anymore.”

  “And I’ll take one for myself, in black.” Dante’s voice was merciless, a tone Tella had never heard cross his lips, yet everything he did with her was gentle. He tenderly tucked the cape around her bare shoulders and shaking legs.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Tella wished she could have nodded or laughed and teased him for being so concerned. But when she tried to laugh it sounded strangled, and when she attempted to nod her head fell pathetically onto his chest.

  She didn’t want to cry. Neither the filthy vendor nor her mother was worthy of a single tear. But while Tella could easily shake off the feel of the vendor’s rough hands, she couldn’t do the same with the words her mother had said. Not only had her mother left her, she’d sold Tella off. Not Scarlett; that hadn’t even been a consideration. It seemed her mother hadn’t been without love. She just hadn’t loved Tella.

  More tears fell from Tella’s eyes.

  “I hope she dies!” Tella didn’t know if she’d muttered it, or raged it. “For years I prayed to any saint who might be listening to please keep her alive until I was able to find her. I wasted all my prayers on her, and she gave me away like a stained rag. But I take it all back!” Tella did shout then. “I take it all back! You can let her die or rot in her paper prison. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.…”

  Tella didn’t know how many times she muttered those last four words.

  Dante just kept stroking her hair and her back with strong, comforting fingers as he continued to carry her. Occasionally he’d press something that felt like
a kiss to the top of her head. But it wasn’t until she fell silent that he finally asked, “Where do you want me to take you?”

  “Somewhere to forget.”

  33

  Tella buried her head back against Dante’s warm chest. She was so tired. Tired of games and lies, and broken hearts, and tired of trying to rescue herself and her mother. She wanted to forget about it all. Maybe she closed her eyes and slept, or maybe it only took him a moment to carry her far away from the park. It seemed very little time had passed before she heard his low voice again.

  “Are you all right to walk?”

  Tella managed a nod and Dante smoothly set her down in front of a narrow set of crumbling steps overrun by moss and laced with forsaken spiderwebs. Ruins so abandoned not even the insects had stayed. But they seemed to be lit by the stars. Tella looked up and saw that they were on the edge of the sparkling white heart Legend had placed in the sky.

  “What is this place?” Tella asked.

  “Valenda’s older myths claim this belonged to a governor who ruled long before the Meridian Empire began, back when the Fates reigned on earth.” Dante guided her up the steps into the skeleton of an old estate. Tella’s nana Anna always said a person’s beauty was determined by their bones. If that were true, the bones of this manor made Tella think it must have been resplendent once.

  The crumbling pillars and overgrown courtyards spoke of ancient wealth, while the cracked statues and ghosts of painted ceilings hinted at disappearing art. Only one relic seemed to have avoided the deadly caress of time. A fountain in the central courtyard, shaped in the form of a woman dressed similar to Tella, who held a pitcher that poured an endless stream of currant-red water into the pool surrounding her ankles.

  “They say this place is cursed,” Dante continued. “During one of the governor’s many parties, his wife discovered that he planned to poison her so that he could wed his younger mistress. Rather than drinking the poison, the wife added three drops of her own blood and poured it out as an offering to one of the Fates—the Poisoner. She vowed to live the rest of her life in service as one of his handmaidens, as long as he granted her one request.”