“Dara’s right,” Donil says. “Stille has had peace far too long. You’re the best fighter they’ve got, and that only because you grew up crossing blades with us.”
“Our army stands many men deep,” Vincent argues. “Stillean soldiers teach their sons the art. It may not pass to them at birth like the Indiri, but much is taught to them in their youth.”
“Yes, training in backyards from soft fathers who never saw battle, while their mothers look on and gasp at every nick of the blade,” Donil says. “Your army may stand deep, but they’ll fall in a tangle at the first swipe.”
Dara swings into her saddle and flicks a scale from her boot. “I could beat five men from the Stillean army. I might need a weapon, but I doubt it.”
“You wouldn’t,” Donil says, taking his horse by the reins and leading him through the fallen Tangata. Dara’s and Vincent’s mounts follow.
“We can test your confidence when we return. Father assured me the army was a sight to see,” Vincent says.
“It’s not confidence,” Dara answers, pulling her heavy hair away from her neck in the heat. “It’s the way of it. Donil and I have lost one home, and our entire race. I see a threat to my new one, and my adopted people ill-fit to defend themselves. ‘A sight to see’ may well be true, but saying kind words about the shininess of their armor doesn’t change the fact that it shines from lack of use.”
“And a man who doesn’t use his sword soon loses his nerve. Though from what Milda tells Daisy, there’s no end to Vincent’s nerve. Or his sword, at that,” Donil says, bending to pick up a stone and toss it toward the prince’s head. But it’s easily plucked from the air by Dara.
“A man who dips his sword in every well soon finds it spotted with rust,” Dara says to her brother.
“Among other things,” Vincent adds, catching the stone when Dara tosses it to him, then winging it at the back of Donil’s freckled head. The Indiri leads his horse on, his low chuckle the only evidence that he felt it at all.
Vincent reaches up to pluck a leaf from a red tree and hands it to Dara. She takes it, only too glad to play a childhood game. Vincent watches as the speckles on her hand and arm change colors, matching the leaf in her hand and flowing up to her face in a ripple.
“You’d do better to be more mindful of your own blood, brother,” Dara chides, letting the breeze pluck the leaf from her hand as her skin settles back into its normal tones. “The last thing Stille wants is half-Indiri children.”
“I’m careful,” Donil says. “Daisy takes the nilflower brew that Madda makes for Vincent’s girl as well.”
“You’re foolish,” Dara snaps, her voice unusually harsh at the mention of Milda. “You’ll get some girl with child, nilflower brew or not, and dilute all that’s left of our blood.”
“And you’re angry that the only man who will have anything to do with you is Unter Hoff, and him only to put a fresh bud to your skin to make you turn green.”
Vincent smothers a laugh, and Dara lashes at him, her anger only half pretended. “That’s not true.”
“You did turn green. I saw it.”
“And that’s not the only thing our Dara turns green over,” Donil says, and the kick aimed at her twin is not in jest.
“And Unter Hoff is not the only one who will have anything to do with me,” she says, face suddenly hard as she spurs her horse past Vincent’s, roughly brushing her twin out of the way. “At least I can turn,” she shoots at him as she passes. “Magic runs through my whole body, not just between my legs like yours.”
Donil sighs heavily as Vincent’s horse pulls alongside him.
“Were all Indiri women so prideful?” Vincent asks.
“For the sake of my male ancestors, I hope not.”
CHAPTER 14
Vincent
DARA REFUSES TO GO INTO THE CAVE, EVEN THOUGH THE tide is low. The teasing on the trail sent her into a black mood she won’t be removed from.
“You go on and invite the sea to come for you, if you want,” she says to us, her feet firmly planted at the edge of the beach where the last of the trees end their march. “I’ll not offer myself up so easily.”
“The tide doesn’t come in that quickly,” I assure her. “We won’t be in danger.”
“Yes, Vin has spent an entire day hauling traps. He knows these things,” Donil says. I give him a shove, but Dara’s scowl remains.
“I’m sure Khosa’s ancestors thought they knew the sea,” she says. “Then the great wave took the Three Sisters, and she’s fated to be Given.”
“And if it comes, standing back here will do you little good,” Donil tells her. “May as well die with us, sister.”
“I’ll die as I please and with whom I choose.”
“Enough,” Donil says, rolling his eyes. “The beast had a path through the underbrush. Any sign on the beach is erased, but that cave is the only good shelter we’ve come across. If there are any more of its kind, we’ll find them there.”
“Should we come back with more men?” I ask, remembering the litter of dead Tangata behind us. But Donil shakes his head.
“You know our opinion of your men. Even with Dara standing at a distance, she’s more use than ten of them flailing in a small space, like to cut off each other’s arms.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve not seen fresh leavings. I’d bet my left hand there’s nothing in the cave, and it’s the one I prefer.”
“In that case, I’ll kindly ask you to release me,” I say, shrugging out from under Donil’s grip. We head for the cave in the dying light, leaving Dara as she sinks into the sand, a mistrustful eye on the restless sea.
“Does the Given find the castle to her liking?” Donil asks.
“I believe so.” My simple answer evades the truth—that Khosa has retreated to the library in the seven days since her arrival. She seeks no company, and the one time I attempted to speak to her, she murmured half answers, eyes locked on a page and not my face. Though Madda’s words had worried me for Khosa’s safety, the guards my father had set at the library doors seemed sturdy.
“Where are your thoughts, brother?” Donil asks me. “Nowhere good, I think.”
The familiarity of calling me “brother” goes far past the spoken word. Donil knows me down through my skin. “I met with Madda yesterday,” I tell him, and my Indiri friend snorts.
“You know what I think of your Stillean Seer.”
“Yes, and brothers we may be in heart, but our ways are still not the same,” I tell him. “Plenty of Stilleans share your opinion—my own father among them. But she’s said things to me that have come to pass, so I won’t dismiss her as easily as others do.”
“Fair enough. What did the old lady say that has you looking like a crushed sea-spine?”
I take a deep breath, remembering how my body relented to the weighty air of nilflower in Madda’s chamber, my mind following as thoughts unspooled into nothingness. Father’s wandering eye, Mother’s unhappiness, Purcell’s shadow falling darkly even now, a long wait for a throne that was never meant to be mine, the speckles that mark my best friends as something to be feared by others, the bright red hair of the girl I bed to pass the time . . . all those had floated with the smoke in the air. I had been left with Khosa, and the one smile that flickered briefly in the spray of the surf.
“I asked her if I will marry,” I admit to Donil.
“Course you will,” Donil scoffs. “I don’t need the Sight to see that. What was her answer?”
“She said I’ll have two great loves in my life.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re married to either of them.”
“I’ll not be a false husband,” I snap, thinking of my father and the lines around Mother’s eyes, deepening with every lover he takes.
“Easy, brother,” Donil says, halting at the cave mouth. “I didn’t say you would. You’re a good man,
Vincent, and take too seriously the words of a mad old woman in a tower. You’ve told me yourself the lines in your hands can change, and that the fate she sees in them today can be altered by your actions tomorrow. No one thing is set in stone.”
I think of Khosa’s body pinned by the trapmen, the sea lapping for the Given even as she lay still.
“One thing is,” I say. “We best see what the cave holds before the tide comes. Dara will have our hides if we have to camp on the beach tonight.”
“Hides and heads.” Donil draws his sword as I do the same, and we enter the cave together. The floor is littered with scales, shining colors catching the last of the fading light. We tread carefully, feet sliding in spots.
“Bit of a reek to it,” I say, stymieing the urge to cover my face again.
“Our beast’s place, for sure.” Donil sheathes his sword as he nears the back of the cave. “And no one home.”
“My grandfather will be glad to hear it. He feared we’d find a nest, send half the people panicking and the other half on a trek to the beach to see.”
Donil doesn’t answer, his attention captured by the wall.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not sure. We’re losing the light but I think . . .” Donil backs away from the wall, eyes squinting in the dark. “I think someone has painted here.”
“Nonsense.” I join him. “No Stillean would chance being drowned.” But my words lose their conviction when I spot a figure on the wall.
It could be explained away as a pattern in the rock when I focus, but when my eyes wander, it springs out again, arms and legs and head too pronounced to be anything but human.
“I see another.” Donil’s fingers trace a pattern higher on the wall. “And you’re right, no Stillean would risk it.”
“Who then? The Indiri?”
Donil shakes his head. “I have no memory of this. And I can tell you the color of my seven-times-great-grandmother’s eyes.”
“And what good is that, when the ones in your own skulls are useless?”
I spin to the front of the cave to find a man leaning in the mouth, picking his teeth with a dagger. “I’ve heard that there were only two Indiri left in our world. I slip past one and find the other boxed in. It seems as if we Feneen were right to leave the speckled babes.”
“No Indiri babe would be left out for your filthy Feneen hands,” Donil says, words coming as swiftly as his sword is drawn. Mine follows, half a shade behind.
“You’ll want to improve your draw, young prince,” the Feneen says to me. “Your tame Indiri may not always be at your side.”
“How do you know who he is?” Donil demands.
The Feneen pockets his dagger and smiles. “Many questions, and the tide rises too fast for a long talk.”
“Then I’ll slit your throat quickly, and you can suck wind through your second mouth as we leave.” Dara’s hand flicks from behind him, smooth as silk in the wind. “You didn’t slip past me.”
The Feneen stiffens in surprise, and Dara’s blade presses all the more closely. “Hear me out, and I think you’ll find it worthwhile to stay your hand.”
Dara and Donil share a look I’m not included in as she adjusts her grip on the dagger, the pressure lifted from the Feneen’s neck.
“I wasn’t looking forward to a night ride home, anyway,” Donil says, relaxing his sword arm. “The cats are restless with the smell of this creature in the air. We relieve you of your weapons, and you share our fire—fair?”
“Fair,” the Feneen agrees.
CHAPTER 15
Vincent
MY ARM IS TENSE AT MY SIDE, UNABLE TO RELAX, EVEN though Donil and Dara move easily before the enemy. Dara’s hands slip through the Feneen’s clothing and relieve him of a dagger before we exit the cave. I will the blood to drain from my cheeks as we leave the shadows. I do not want the twins to know how I flushed when called out on a slow sword draw. It did not go unnoticed either, how Donil had stepped slightly in front of me, angled to protect me from an attack.
“You travel light,” I say as we emerge from the cave into the twilight, looking at the single dagger that Dara now carries.
“My true weapon lies here,” he says, tapping a pouch that hangs around his neck, but the easy smile that follows takes all threat from his words. My steps falter as I look at him.
All of my life I’ve used the fine lines around eyes and mouths to decipher whether I’m speaking to a mother, grandfather, or great. In some of the noble families, the resemblances are so close I have to count crow’s-feet before I pronounce a name, like counting tines of my fork to know which to use with what course. But this Feneen has told me much in a glance, all of it at odds.
The smile remains as he watches my confusion, dimples sunk deep in cheeks still plump with youth. His lips are full but pull back over yellowed teeth, a few missing already. The fingers at his necklace are rough with years of work, the nails as thick as my grandfather’s. My eyes travel back to a face as smooth as mine, and eyes that are laughing at me.
“As I said, I think you’ll find it worthwhile to hear me out, young prince.”
“You know me,” I say, not phrasing it as a question as we pick our way across the beach, Dara gingerly flicking the surf from her boots as if she were a forest cat herself.
“I’m Stillean—or would have been if my mother hadn’t left me on the rocks,” he amends as we pass into the coolness of the woods, the long shadows of the trees closing around us. “I’ve kept an interest in my people, whether they had one in me or not.”
“What is your name?”
“The Feneen call me Ank, and I don’t know that I ever had another,” he says, sinking down to the ground as Donil and Dara set to making a fire. Their capable hands have a flame within minutes, and Donil pulls food from his sack while she tends the horses, their noses brushing against her for treats.
“Oh, beasties,” she says quietly, pulling an apple from her pocket and slicing it. “Can’t keep a secret from you, can I?”
“Bread, cheese, and would’ve been some fruit if my sister hadn’t fed it to the horses,” Donil says, carving up chunks of both among us.
“They need their strength, same as us,” Ank says. “You were right earlier; the cats are restless. You’ll want the legs under your mounts if you need to outrun them.”
“They don’t attack people,” Dara says. “Only if they’re desperate.”
“Or the people particularly foolish,” Donil adds.
“Perhaps,” Ank says. “None of you strike me as foolish, but the cats are desperate, though not for food.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him, my eyes still crawling over his young face in the firelight, his aged hands a stark disagreement.
Instead of answering me, he looks to Dara. “What do you know?”
Her eyes go to her brother, and he nods. “The cats have gone to the trees,” she says, and my heart sinks.
My childhood was littered with tutors to teach me stars, letters, sums, manners, and the history of my people. Books rested on my bedside, heavy with necessary reading, but the one that captured my attention held it because of the fear it evoked. Tales of the great wave that took nearly everything, illuminated with Tangata cats climbing trees in the margins, water lapping at the lower branches.
“What do you make of it?” Donil asks Ank.
“The cats aren’t the only ones behaving oddly. Something of the land is taking to the trees, something of the sea taking to the land. I’ve seen worms burrowing their way to the sun like there’s going to be a hard rain, but none falls. And the birds aren’t making nests.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because there aren’t any young,” Ank says.
“Sister?” Donil’s question hangs in the air.
“He’s right,” Dara says quietly. “I’ve not seen Tanga
ta kittens or wolf pups, no oderbirds’ eggs from toppled nests in the woods.”
A silence settles over us, and the fire pops, brilliantly lighting Ank’s young face. “What are you?” I ask.
“I’m a Feneen, made so by the caul I was born with.”
I’d heard of those born with cauls, a membrane covering their faces as they exited their mothers’ wombs. It was rare, but like a lamb with a fifth dangling leg or a pup with two heads, it was not looked on as a good thing. A merciful midwife would cut it away before presenting the babe, the parents never the wiser. Whoever attended Ank’s mother on the birthing stool was not one of those.
“You were abandoned?” I ask.
He nods. “Left on the rocks for the Feneen, the cats, or the gulls—whoever got to me first.”
I shudder, but he raises a hand. “There’s a reason why those born behind the veil aren’t welcome, and I can’t say I disagree with it. Seems that having a mask given to me as a babe means I can see past whatever the living wear now.”
Dara clears her throat and hugs her cloak tighter around her chest.
“Nay, girl,” Ank says, but not without a smile. “I mean I can see to the insides of you, know who you are in truth, not the face you present to the world.”
I think of Khosa and me at dinner, careful to make conversation, share food and drink, and never once say anything of importance to each other, the polite manners and court politics keeping us from sharing one true thing.
“A rare gift,” I say to him. “To know someone fully.”
“And one that might make keeping friends a bit difficult,” Donil adds.
“Harder still to find people I’d want to call that.”