I wonder how much she knows. “I wasn’t going to ask for that.”
“Then what did you want from me?”
“I need to get word to Rama immediately.”
Amba rises off the sofa, her eyes flashing like lightning in the sky. “You want a goddess to run an errand for you?”
Her annoyance is a gust of wind that knocks me back against the wall. I don’t cower. “I can’t use a tech screen. And I can’t send a comm from my watch. They’re probably monitoring all of my devices. I can’t give Lord Selwyn any evidence to use against me. I need to speak to Rama, but I can’t do it safely without you.”
The wind stops. “They would still know you were the one who passed on the information,” she points out.
“They might guess,” I say, “which is better than if they had proof.”
Amba nods. “Very well. Just this once, Esmae.”
I thank her and write a hasty note. Tell your father they might try to take Skylark. They need to know it’s under his protection. I don’t know what else I can say. If I start telling Rama anything more, I’ll open the floodgates and sit here writing to him for hours.
I put the folded note into Amba’s hand. She closes her fist and the paper vanishes into smoke, ready to materialize when she needs it.
She considers me for a moment. “I told you not to fire that arrow.”
“I know.”
“I should have told you the truth.” She sighs. “If I’d told you why I wanted you to stay away from your brother, maybe you would have obeyed.”
I laugh without any real humor. “But you’re so good at not telling me the truth, Amba. Remember that fairytale you made up about my heartbroken mother giving me up?”
Amba doesn’t look sorry. “How does one tell a small child that her mother was so afraid of her, she almost killed her? It was kinder to let you believe she never wanted to give you up.”
I don’t know if that’s true. Was it kinder to let me believe my mother loved me? Was it kinder to give me years of hope, only for me to end up with even more pain when that hope finally burned out?
“So what was it?” I ask again. “Why didn’t you want me to meet Alexi that day?”
“My brother Kirrin is determined to help Alexi win this war, you know,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Strive for a little patience, Esmae. Kirrin is important.”
“He’s the god of tricks.”
“And bargains,” she reminds me. “He doesn’t like it when people forget that part. Kirrin loves Alexi. He was the one who gave him the Golden Bow.”
The Golden Bow is the bright bow Alexi always wears on his back. I knew that it was a gift from a god given when Alexi was only ten years old. It’s a divine weapon, one only Alexi can use. It’s said that there’s an incantation he can use to transform it into an explosion of radiance that will obliterate any mortal enemy he chooses.
As if that wasn’t sufficient, Rickard gave all his students a gift when they passed his first test. Bear got Rickard’s own mace. Alexi got an arrow that will always return to him. And I got the Black Bow, cut two thousand years ago by Amba herself.
“Kirrin’s help may make all the difference between victory and defeat for Alexi,” Amba says. “It’s very difficult to defeat those who are so loved by gods, even with a god-graced ship.”
“Lucky for me, then, that I’m not trying to defeat him.”
She sighs, steps close to me, and touches my cheek. I see sorrow and calamity in her eyes. “You are loved by gods, too, Esmae, even if you don’t yet know it.”
I smile. “That’s absurd. You’re the only god I know, and you don’t love me.”
She frowns but doesn’t reply.
“What could I possibly have done to make the gods see me as something out of the ordinary?” I ask her. “What could I possibly have done to make any of you love me? Was it the competition?”
“That is a scant part of it,” she says. “Perhaps you can’t see it, but you are more than your flaws and mistakes. You are more than the sorrows of your past. Your heart is as fierce as a lion’s. You are loved by gods, just as your brother is. Remember that. Perhaps it will help you in the way it will help him. Perhaps it will help save you in the end.”
I go very still. “What?”
She’s silent.
The chill starts at the top of my spine and spreads out from there. “Save me from what?”
Amba turns away. “Time is different for gods. We see small pieces of the past and the present and the future all at once, like stars. We see what will be and what can be and what may or may not be. And what we see shifts as different choices are made. I’ve told you that before. What I may not have ever told you, however, is that sometimes we see fixed points. Events that cannot be shifted. We don’t always know the how, we don’t always know the why, and we almost never know what leads to a particular event. Mortals make their own choices, and we can’t control them, but they inevitably lead themselves to their own fates—their own fixed points. And those points, in time, will happen. One way or another, they will happen. They already have happened. You see? Past and present and future are all one and the same to us.”
“Just tell me!”
She won’t look me in the eye when she says it. “Four years ago, when Elvar took the throne from your brother, Kirrin and I both saw the same piece of the future. We agreed not to share it with either of you, but Kirrin told Alexi about it just yesterday. He told Alexi he would murder his twin sister one day.”
My heart thumps unevenly. “No.”
“We didn’t know how it would come about, exactly, just that it would start on the day you met your brother. That’s why I wanted you to stop training with Rickard. That’s why I wanted to keep you away from Alexi. Then, when you went to the palace on the day of the competition, in spite of my asking you not to, more of the future became clear. Suddenly, I could see how it would start.” The way she looked at me before I fired the arrow. “The moment you shot that fish, you sealed your fate. Made that event a fixed point.”
“It’s not true. He wouldn’t. Alexi wouldn’t. I’m his sister.”
“He will do it. We’ve seen it. There will be a duel, a broken arrow, your eyes will grow wide with fear as you realize he’s broken the rules. You will fall, and you will spit blood onto the grass beneath you before you die.”
“You cannot seriously believe Alexi Rey would break the rules of a duel. That’s even less likely than him killing his own sister.”
“It is what it is,” says Amba softly.
My fists clench and unclench at my sides. And in a dark, terrible corner of my mind, a little voice tells me not to forget Rickard and the curse he laid on me.
That’s the day his curse will come for me. And Alexi will kill me.
“When?” I ask. “When is it supposed to happen?”
“Soon. Neither of you look any older.”
“You and Kirrin must have made a mistake. The blueflower jewel keeps me safe, Amba. Alexi can’t kill me.”
“I don’t know how it’s possible, just that it will be.”
“He won’t do it.”
“He will.”
“Tell the gods to watch us,” I snap. “If I really am a favorite of theirs, like Alexi or Grandmother or Rickard, then my words should have power. So tell the gods to watch us, Amba. That will not be our fate. Alexi will not kill me. I will not die that day. I swear it.”
I expect her to be furious with me for making reckless vows, but she simply smiles. For just one moment, her eyes shine as gloriously as stars. “Now you must keep that vow, Esmae,” she says. “I do not believe you can, but I hope you will.”
I will, I swear to myself. I will.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Hundred and One will be killed.
They’re just kids, and they’re going to be killed. I know this because I’m watching them train right now—have watched them before—and they will not be ab
le to beat Alexi, Bear, and the warriors I know my brothers have on their side.
It should reassure me, knowing that Max’s force can’t beat Alexi’s, but it doesn’t. They’re not anonymous, faceless soldiers I can calculate the odds on from a distance. They’re faces I see every single day.
Sybilla is on the training field with a handful of them, finishing up their evening session. The sun lamps have switched over to moonlight, the ship rumbles beneath us, and the field is a harsh landscape of rocks, perilous crevices, and short, prickly yellow grass. I’m in a tree, above them; I was reading when they came out and then I stayed to watch.
“Juniper, you’re dead,” Sybilla says in frustration. “I just got you in the back. How many times do I have to remind you to guard your back in battle? You cannot waste time making sure your brothers are okay.”
This is true, but her brothers do the same for her. Ideally none of them would be in a battle because they’ll just worry about one another and get distracted, but they would make an excellent stealth team for quieter, more devious attacks.
I open my mouth to say so but clamp it shut again. I’m not supposed to be making them better.
But what about just keeping them alive, Esmae?
I swear under my breath.
When the session is finished, the Hundred and One bound away with cheerful, youthful exuberance, chattering about what they’re having for dinner and who’s off duty tonight. Only Sybilla remains, collecting stray arrows across the field. She slots them into the practice quiver propped against the trunk of my tree.
“You can come down now,” she says without looking up.
I had a feeling she knew I was there. She looked at the tree far too often. I drop lightly out of the tree.
“What were you hiding up there for, Princess?”
“I was reading, not hiding.”
“And watching us.”
“Yes, that too.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you think? Of them?”
I measure my words, then say, “I think you and Max have done the best you can, but none of you will beat Alexi without better techniques and a lot more practice.”
I watch her to see if she’s insulted, but she only nods. “I know. So does Max. But Rickard can’t teach us and General Saka left. Everyone who is left has already taught us everything they know.” She laughs, short and jagged. “Well. Almost everyone who is left.”
“You want to know why I haven’t offered to teach the Hundred and One,” I say. No use dancing around it.
“No,” says Sybilla. “Max says you didn’t come here to train us. You’re here because it’s your home. You don’t owe us anything. And I agree. You don’t owe us anything. I just don’t understand why you haven’t offered. I saw you teaching one of the kitchen maids how to read the other day. I’ve seen you working on equations with Jemsy. So it makes no sense to me that the one place you haven’t offered anyone any help is here. Battle.”
“You’ve wanted to say this for weeks,” I remark. “You’ve bit your tongue. But I don’t mind. Honestly, Sybilla. Whatever else you have to say, say it.” I’d rather know what I’m facing. If she suspects my allegiances lie elsewhere, I want to know it.
She crosses her arms over her chest, jaw clenched, bracing herself. “No one’s seen you so much as touch a sword or arrow since you got here. I’m starting to wonder if it was all a trick after all. I’ve said it before, but where are your scars? How did you supposedly train under Rickard and yet come away unscathed? Maybe you have no battle skills and that’s why you won’t show anyone what you can do. Maybe you’re not the real Esmae Rey.” I blink, and she rushes on, defensively, “It’s possible, so don’t look at me like that. The gods used to cloak people in the old days by making them look like other people. A god could have done that for you. Maybe Kirrin, god of tricks. He’s on Alexi’s side. He could have sent you here to distract us while the real Esmae fights with Alexi. I know there are holes in this theory, but I can’t think of any other reason why—”
“Sybilla,” I say, almost laughing because I’m so relieved that this is why she doesn’t trust me. This, I can fix. “Stop. Yes, the gods can cloak people. No, I’m not an imposter.”
She kicks at the dirt beneath our feet. “I want to like you, Princess. I do like you. I would gladly be your friend, under different circumstances, but I can’t get past this. I will protect you because it’s my job and I will be courteous to you, but I can’t trust you and now you know why.”
I sigh. “Give me your bow and one of those arrows.”
She’s shocked. She silently hands them over. This is the first time I’ve held an arrow since I fired at a mechanical fish.
I unwind the bowstring, test it, and string the bow again. A small, sharp stab of pain shoots through my hand. I hold it open and show Sybilla the blood on my fingertips.
“Watch,” I say.
In the bright, clear light of the moon lamps above, Sybilla watches as my fingers heal.
She gasps. “How?”
“It’s a long story.”
After a moment she asks, in a softer tone than I’ve ever heard her use before, “Does it hurt every time?”
“Yes.”
“Even after all this time?”
“It doesn’t matter how much time passes. This is why I have no calluses. No scars. I heal too fast.” I pause, then reluctantly add a lie at the end of the truth. “And I haven’t touched a sword or arrow since I got here because I don’t want anyone to see the way I heal.”
She lets out a breath, and with it her entire body seems to soften, losing the taut, suspicious posture she’s always had in my presence. “I’m sorry. I was so sure you were lying to us, but this answers all my questions. Thank you for telling me. Esmae.”
I grin. “So about that part where you’d gladly be my friend . . .”
She laughs. “Does Max know? About this?”
“If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
“Speaking of,” she says.
I look across the field and see Max standing on a palace balcony some distance above us, silhouetted. A woman is at his side.
“Who’s he talking to?” I ask.
“No idea.”
“I’ve never seen her before.” And now that I think about it, that seems to happen an awful lot. “I often see him with people I’ve never seen before, and then I never see them again.”
She chuckles. “Oh, yes, that’s always been his way. No one knows who those people are. They come and they go.”
It’s unusual behavior for a crown prince. Are they spies? Assassins? But why would you talk to your spies in full view of anyone passing by? On the other hand, if they’re just casual acquaintances or friends, why not meet them in a more social setting? And why don’t they ever reappear? It has to be something more secret, yet he’s not afraid of other people seeing his visitors’ faces, which is an odd contradiction.
I scrutinize the balcony some more. Max and the woman are arguing. He makes a gesture of annoyance and strides back inside. The woman follows.
“Hey,” Sybilla says, and I turn back to her. “There’s this fayre down by the river. Great music, lots of food. Do you want to go?”
“I’d love to.”
I’ve only ever left the palace by chariot, but this time we walk. It’s a steep, winding path down into the city, a knotty set of side roads past little red-roofed houses and air vents hidden behind thorns. The woods creep over us, shadows blotting out the lamps. I shiver. The hiss of steel follows us, and every now and then I catch a glimpse of the source: a sword flashing in someone’s hand or two people training with knives.
We go down into Erys, down back alleys, where voices and the clang of steel periodically burst out of windows. The calm electronic voice of the base ship’s systems crackles over hidden intercoms a few times along the way.
“There,” says Sybilla, as we step out of an alley and into a labyr
inth of courtyards. “The fayre.”
The courtyards are cobbled, surrounded by gurgling canals from the artificial river and connected by picturesque little bridges. The only knives in sight are the ones used to slice meat, and swords are either absent or sheathed. It’s a glimpse of the Kali beyond the reach of warfare and discipline, a world where mayhem and joy are allowed to thrive. The fayre itself is not unlike the noisy, bustling markets of Wychstar, but smaller and more intimate. Children perform cartwheels across the cobblestones and puppeteers put on a show at the far end of the street. The stalls are crammed with food and trinkets. Somewhere, someone plays melancholy music. Sybilla and I find an empty bench. I wander off to buy us a loaf of warm bread with cheese and walnuts, and when I return, I see that a girl has joined Sybilla at the bench. They seem to know each other. I wait a short distance away so that I don’t interrupt them, but Sybilla doesn’t seem interested in whatever the girl’s asking her. She shakes her head and the girl leaves with a graceful shrug.
“So you said no,” I guess, dropping onto the bench.
She breaks off a piece of bread. “I said no. We’ve been out before and I don’t do second dates. Second dates lead to attachments.”
I smile at her prickly tone. “If you say so.”
“What about you, then? Do you like girls?”
“Boys, I think.” I let a laugh out of my nose. “Not that there’s been many to speak of. There were a couple of boys I liked for a little while on Wychstar, and several sloppy kisses, but romance wasn’t exactly my priority.”
“It’s not mine either,” she says, jumping to her feet. “Let me go get us some drinks. You haven’t yet tried our terrible gooseberry wine, have you?”
She saunters off. I’m tempted to tell her that gooseberry wine is even more terrible when there’s a possibility it might be poisoned, but of course I can’t say that.
I shift my attention back to the fayre, listening to the music, which has shifted from melancholy to something harder, more energetic, defiant. It works its way into my heart like a blade between the ribs.
My watch pulses on my wrist. I slide an earpiece into my left ear and answer the comm. “I’m out in the city, so you may have trouble hearing me.”