Foretold (24 page)

Amused, Valerian turns Carnifex, to come up beside me. “How far?”

“I’m still looking for the three flaming witches, if you must know.” I sound sharper than I mean to, but it’s embarrassing. I have no plan. My path is uncertain. And all I’ve got to guide me is wishful thinking.

“With that, I can help,” Valerian says. He turns Carnifex once more, urging the beast to leave the road. When I don’t immediately follow, he calls back. “If you don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.”

“Miss what?” I ask, but take off after him.

The fields give way to us, high grasses whispering against our boots as we ride through. Cottages dot the horizon, more sheep and cattle wandering in lazy waves. Everything smells sweet here, of fresh greens instead of the road’s dust. Soon, we crest a hill and Valerian points at the rise of the next one. Something has cut into the earth, exposing long gouges of white chalk.

“I grew up here,” he says. “And do you know what we call those chalk cuts?”

Slowly, I shake my head.

“The White Witches.”

I turn back to the hill and say, “But I need three
flaming
witches.”

“They will.” His face brightens, and he looks toward the horizon. “Hop down. These good beasts could stand a rest.”

Dismounting, we let Gavrus and Carnifex wander. They find a shallow stream and stand there shoulder to shoulder. Those horses could be no more content in a fine stable; it’s plain from the way they flick their tails and drink their fill.

I follow Valerian to a small clearing in the meadow. Before
I can sit down, Valerian bends his knee and offers one hand. At first, I don’t understand what he intends. Then he tips his head, his eyes glancing at his own shoulder.

“You’ll want a good view,” he explains.

My mouth drops open, and I close it with a snap. I’m not sure what possesses me, as I’ve never been especially graceful or brave. But I step onto his knee and let him heft me to his shoulder.

My heart races as I perch there like a falcon, curling my hand around his shoulder for balance. Banding my ankles with
his
hand, he doesn’t seem to notice that his touch makes me shiver.

The view
is
better here. From this vantage, I understand how the horses so easily found the stream. The grasses are darker along its edges, and it winds into the distance in a serpentine wave. Subtle shapes cast shadows from this height. I make out an old path, and a new stile, and even the nests of meadow birds.

“Here it comes,” Valerian says.

The valley fills with the sunset. It’s mostly orange, the fields drenched in bronze. But the longer light stretches to crimson. It strikes the chalk and the hill goes up in flames. A sound slips from me, one of surprise and wonder.

The witches flicker, playing with the sunset and strange shadows. Glimmering, dancing, they seem to bow and twist toward the sky. They’re
alive
. Until this moment, I’ve never seen a dragon or a spellcasting—I can’t say that I believed in either. But this is magic. True magic.

Just before the horizon swallows the sun, the chalk witches throw one last illusion. It burns like a brand against the hill, a cartographer’s symbol. It’s unmistakable, and for a moment, it seems like it will burn away the grasses to leave a permanent mark.

Then, at once, it’s gone. There’s nothing left but a crumbling rise and the coming of night.

“South by southwest,” I say on my first new breath. Thoughtlessly, I card my fingers through Valerian’s curls, and lean over so I can see him when I speak to him. “We should get going.”

Clasping my hip, Valerian bends so I can slip from his shoulder. When I hit the ground, my scarf comes loose. It snakes down my back, coiling at my feet. Valerian manages to pluck it up before I can, and he offers it to me.

He’s surprised—of course he’s surprised. Lucia’s the only one I’ve never caught staring at my scars. I’m a horror, and without his asking, I answer.

“When I was very small, my mother dropped me in the solstice bonfire. Gossip says my father planned to send her away, as he did all his mistresses, and to keep me.” I wind my scarf around my head once more, feeling strangely hollow. “Father swears it was an accident.”

“Was it?”

“Who’s to say what the truth is?” I shrug. “I don’t remember, and the result is the same. She died and took the answer with her.”

Instead of offering this time, Valerian simply takes my hand and nods toward the horses. We walk toward them, and I’m unsettled. It’s not dark yet, but it’s coming, and the air between us is much heavier than before. His grip is tight when he finally speaks. “What’s it like?”

I could answer so many ways. I decide on facts, which is probably what he means anyway. “Well. I’m sensitive to heat, and my eyes get dry. The physicians used to split the scars on my birthday, to let me grow. But not on the last one. They think I’m as big as I’ll ever be now.”

Towering above me, Valerian hums, and his expression
is a mystery. I wish he would come down to my height; he’s so tall, this giant. And I don’t mind explaining. It’s a bit of a novelty to talk about it, actually.

Most people, the polite ones anyway, stare hard and try to pretend they’re not curious. (The rude ones call me an abomination and run me off their land with a crossbow.) To prove I’m not wounded by his silence, I add, “Sometimes I can’t tell my nose is running until I can taste it.”

There is silence. Then he starts to laugh.

“I’ll ask my mother if she has an extra handkerchief,” he says. He releases me, to give Carnifex a good petting before he climbs back into the saddle. “She’ll feed us tonight. I hope you like stew.”

“We mustn’t stay long. My sister fevers; she doesn’t have time to wait.”

“On my honor, we won’t even stay long enough to lick the bowls.”

Nodding, I put my foot in the stirrup and throw myself astride Gavrus. Valerian follows suit, and soon I’m following him toward a cottage just outside Alisca.

I cannot let myself wonder why he would present me to his mother, or honestly, why he’s still with me. If I did, I would suspect him of something. Court intrigue has taught me to examine every kindness twice over. I am
not
a desirable thing.

But there’s a sliver of my heart that doubts that when Valerian looks my way.

The stew is perfect. Its savory scent taunts me, daring me to wolf it down with no manners at all.

But Iulla, Valerian’s mother, watches me. Her eyes are gray as a petrel’s, and just as keen. She has wrested her thick silver hair into a crown of braids, and presides over her
cottage as a queen keeps her court. I don’t dare eat like a beast before her.

“She says, ‘I’m a scholar, making a history of these lands,’ ” Valerian lies, smiling at his mother over the rim of his bowl. “So I said, ‘You’ll need a guide. I know these hills better than any.’ ”

Iulla smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You come and go with the seasons; you just needed an excuse.”

When Valerian stands, he has to bow his head so it doesn’t scrape the ceiling. His shoulders fill the room, and he steps over benches to get to the basin by the door. “It’s true. But this is my best excuse yet, don’t you think?”

“Be a pet and fetch your poor mother some water.”

Moving to stand, I say, “It’s the least I can do for the meal, please let me.”

“No, no,” Iulla says. She catches my wrist. Though her hands are birdlike, they clasp tight. There’s an edge of force to it, but she still smiles. “Let Valerian. It keeps him humble.”

Unaware of the strange tension that passes between us, Valerian smiles. He bows humbly, then sweeps out the door with a bucket in each hand. When he fades into the night, I look to Iulla and offer a smile of my own. “He’s a good soul. You must be very proud.”

Iulla ignores that. She lets go of my hand and catches my chin instead. It startles me; most people don’t touch me at all. No one but Lucia touches my face. Valerian’s mother tips my head sharply and before I can pull away, she retreats.

“Well, Augusta Corvina, Your Highness,” she says, cold creeping over her like a mantle, “isn’t it a pleasure to serve you?”

Her voice is brittle. It snaps and cracks, and honestly, it surprises me. She has been uneasy since she saw me, but
most people are. That’s an impersonal sort of distance. This is frighteningly intimate.

Squaring the bowl in front of me, I shake my head. “If you know my name, you know I’m bastard-born. I have no title. I’m a citizen and subject, just as you are.”

“And what would a citizen and subject want with my only son?”

I blink. That question is just as sharp and cold as the last one, but now I recognize her look. Her meaning. She isn’t angry; she’s
afraid
.

“I don’t want anything.” Earnestly, I press a hand to my heart and swear, “He doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Neither do you,” she says. Her words are clipped and direct. “Augusta Lucia is dying, and the king’s remaining heir is missing, believed kidnapped. There’s a reward for her safe return.”

“And you wish that reward?” I ask. The words stick in my throat.

A ripple of disgust crosses her face. “I have all I need, Your Highness. I have my home, and my hearth, and my
son
.”

Baffled, I say, “Then what—”

She cuts me off with a black finality. “If you’re safely returned, your father will forgive
any
method used to accomplish it.”

Now I feel her cold, from within instead of without. My father is a successful king by every measure of kingship. He sends young men to war and calls them into service. He can sentence the guilty and pardon them alike. Without hesitation, he does both. His power rests easily on his brow, but he’s not known as The Good or The Gentle.

He’s known as The Immovable.

How many people lie awake tonight imagining how they would spend that reward? How many would cut Valerian to pieces to get to it, knowing all their sins and crimes are already forgiven?

Quickly, I stand. I fumble for my satchel, pulling it over my shoulder. My belly turns to stone, and a tight band stifles my breath in my chest. I want to rail at the gods, at the sky, at my father. No one at the palace is supposed to miss me! There should be no prize for my return.

“Tell Valerian …,” I start, my gaze trailing toward the open door. He’s out there somewhere, bemused and carrying water. And safe—safer still, the more distance I put between us.

I never should have let him accompany me in the first place. I never should have held his hand, or—no. These are useless thoughts. I shove them down and open the back door. My voice cracks when I finally finish my thought. “Tell him thank you for me.”

As I creep away in silence, I doubt very much that she will.

After two days’ riding, I come to the end of the world. Or more accurately, to the end of the island.

The Straits of Lixus separate me from the plains of Ticinum. Those are Queen Vatia’s lands, and she’s our ally. Should I succeed in my task, it’s likely her second son will come for Lucia’s Betrothal Quest.

Sliding from Gavrus’ back, I walk to the cliff’s edge. This precipice is exactly south by southwest—I can go no farther unless I find a ship and someone to captain her. I measure my steps and follow a narrow path down to the shore. Though I’ve heard that some beaches are smooth with powdery sand, this one is entirely stone.

The water seems to smile and beckon. Moonlight plays on the waves, twinkling like stars. Down here, I taste salt with each breath and turn my face into the cool wind.

The prophecy says that the three flaming witches will point the way, and the Light-Forged Champion will survive the Breathless Reaches. Valerian found the witches; it’s up to me to figure out the rest.

Suddenly, a wave rolls onto the shore. It soaks my sandals and recedes between the rocks, white fingers pulled back into the sea. Another follows it, swelling as if taking great breaths, and then collapsing on itself. It lures me closer. Perhaps I can catch the stars on the waves. Perhaps I can step onto them and walk the waters as if they were land.

I hold my arms out as the next wave comes in.

It wants to push me over. It tries to pull me in. It’s a grasping, living thing and now I’m openly thwarting it. I don’t know why, except the hard spray stings my skin, and the cold clarifies my thoughts. If I just let it, I think the waters will scrub me clean. I’ll be selfless again, worthy of the Cup.

I’m stronger than the sea. I’m greater than my foolish, infatuated heart. I don’t wait for the next wave; I step into the water to greet it. The crash and the call roar in my ears, a long gasp that blocks all but the sound of my own heart beating. Water strikes. This time, I sway with it. It clutches me. It drags.

Overhead, the moon swells bright, full and round as the goddess herself.

Cold swallows me, my bones aching. A sheer black wall rises before me. In its shadow, already weighted with waves, I stare at it in wonder. How beautiful a thing, this lithe column made of the sea. I can see garlands of watergrass hanging in it, the bright white sparks of shells as they’re carried along.

Reaching to touch it, I gasp when a spark lights in me—
a memory. Stories of sailors enchanted by the waves, dazzled by the full moon reflected in the sea. Once I had wondered how water, simple water, could call so many to drown. Now I know.

I try to scramble back, but the wave collapses on me. It sweeps my feet from underneath me. Now that I’m unfooted, my satchel is an anchor. It drags me deeper; I’m stripped by the descent. My headscarf peels away, hanging like a drop of blood above me.

Everything is quiet in the below, all but the hum of my last breath escaping in a stream of silver bubbles. At first, the peace drowns my panic.

Then my lungs start to burn. I don’t remember the solstice fire. And I don’t remember the months afterwards, either, thank Vara. But my
flesh
remembers it. Fire sleeps within me, roused when I stand too close to the hearth, or even when Lucia’s hand lingers too long on my cheek.

And now. A thousand pinpoints of fire—of pain—strike my chest. Water should douse fire, but it doesn’t. It rises into my throat; my lips swell and even my eyes burn and bulge.