Riot of Storm and Smoke Page 4

as I fall asleep.

  Makers, take me is all I ask,

  when my soul is gone

  and my time has passed.

  My father has always been power-mad, but he hasn’t always been mad.

  At least, he’d never seemed that way to me. In my younger years, I’d studied the trade of the throne at his knee. Spent hours with him in his war room as he’d explained the strategic errors of different sieges, different battles throughout history. A good king learns to delegate, he’d taught me. He makes plans and back-up plans.

  I shift uncomfortably in my cell. Of course, now that he’s thrown his only heir in prison, there’s no denying it. The tenuous grip my father had on sanity is gone.

  Stretched above my head, my arms ache with fatigue. I’m chained to a low window, and the only way to relieve my arms is to stand. My position shifts constantly depending on which body part cries louder.

  My bladder pulses with a phantom pain, but I try valiantly to ignore it. There’s no point in trying to relieve myself. I’m drained dry. I haven’t been deprived of water—Father hasn’t taken those measures yet—but the amount I’ve been given is far from adequate in the summer’s heat.

  I cannot believe we sentence minor lawbreakers to prisons like this one.

  “When I am king…” —if I am king— “…we’re going to do things a bit differently,” I say aloud.

  Stale air greets my statement. There is no one to listen to me. And only madmen speak to the wind and expect it to talk back.

  It speaks to the Air Riders, though. At least Bree’s father had had that company…along with anyone he cared to exchange shouted conversations with. He’d been in a prison boasting the kingdom’s worst offenders—those whose sentences didn’t warrant death.

  I, on the other hand, am in a dungeon that I’d believed we didn’t use anymore. The only prisoner in here, my words are met with nothing but dust.

  Father’s guards transported me here with a cloth sack over my head, but they underestimate my familiarity with the castle. When I wasn’t buried in lessons, attending court functions, or overseeing judicial sessions with my “justice”-seeking father, I was combing the castle with Aleta. We’d raced from one end to the other, trying to best each other. We’d found countless secret passages that way. Some were derelict—crumbling staircases, caved in hallways. Others were dirty, but serviceable. At a younger age, Aleta used to use them to hide from my father when he was in a rage until she’d realized that only served to heighten his anger.

  Footsteps sound overhead, and I briefly stand to attention before sagging against the wall again. Why do I bother? Those footsteps will pass by, just as all of the others have.

  But they pause, and a door opens. Father? I straighten, wanting to appear alert. Capable. The steps click down the stairs. I’ll have to see what sort of disposition he’s in. I can’t do anything about my situation until I’ve gauged which buttons should be pressed. It’s risky. These days, it’s easy to miscalculate; his moods oscillate like the weather.

  But it isn’t my father that enters the space outside my cell.

  “Tutor Larsden.” I keep my voice blank, an empty tome. Larsden is a different sort of mad than my father. After the experiments he tried on Bree, trying to get her to Reveal... The man’s sadistic. That hadn’t been the first I’d heard of his work. Word around the castle was that he captured young serving boys and maids, trying to force them into early Reveals as well, but...

  I remember the skin of Bree’s hands, puckered and charred. Larsden had been untouchable before. Under my father’s protection. I hadn’t seen how I could humanely end his work.

  I should have thrown aside humanity. I should have ended him long before it came to this.

  He nods, his sallow face toying with the idea of sympathy. “Your Highness.” Two guards flank him as he toys with something at his hip. Keys. They jingle like the opening chords of a requiem. I keep my eyes on his, and he purses his lips.

  “Please,” I say with a benign smile. “Won’t you come in?”

  Larsden opens the padlock with precision, as though a tumbler turned too far will result in disaster. The guards follow him inside, a trunk I didn’t see before hefted between the two of them.

  “Your father—”

  “I’ve already surmised that my father sent you, Tutor Larsden. I’m not uneducated nor am I dim-witted. My father sent you to see if I’ve had a change of heart or if I’ve remembered anything that may serve his purpose.” I let out an aggrieved sigh. “I am loyal to my father—to my king, Larsden. I can’t serve him from this cell.”

  “Yes,” Larsden says. He leans against the bars of the cell, lounging comfortably against them. The man’s bones are as small as one of the bars. “I’m afraid that’s no longer good enough.”

  Good enough?

  It is suddenly difficult to coax air through my lungs. Larsden takes a step toward me.

  “Larsden,” I say quietly. “You want to think very carefully about how you proceed next.”

  “Does Your Highness believe me to be unintelligent? I am not. Nor am I dim-witted,” he says, parroting me.

  “I don’t believe you’re dim-witted, Larsden,” I say. “I believe that you’re short-sighted.” He removes something from his coat, an object that gleams silver. My shackles clink softly as I shift my stance. “I believe you’re too secure in your position with my father. You forget to consider your future.”

  “What do you think the future holds, Your Highness?”

  I smile. “My reign.”

  He pauses. “Ah.”

  I hold my smile, heart pounding. His pause has the air of play-acting, drawing out a moment for dramatic tension. Lady Katerine used to do the same, simpering at her prey before striking for the kill.

  “Your reign is no longer a certainty, Your Highness,” he says, with what would look like regret to the casual observer. He shrugs. “And I? I do what I must in the name of science. Your father understands that. It’s why he graciously allowed me to extend my experiments to the young duchess of Secan.”

  “You—” My ire rears at his mention of Bree. He dares… Incensed, I forget my shackles and strain toward him. His lips curve when I reach the end of my tether, chains clattering as I’m snapped back to the wall. Bastard. My chest heaves as I catch my breath.

  Damn it all. With that single mistake, I’ve relinquished any advantage I may have had in this conversation, but I try to reason with him anyway.

  “If my father thought for one moment that your purposes did not serve his own, he’d throw you in the gutter like yesterday’s trash.”

  “That may be. But for now, my goals are his.”

  And we both know that my father believes in results—and he’s not much given to caring about the means with which they are achieved. Never mind that Larsden is no stranger to torture. Never mind that my father’s given him permission to use his techniques on his own son.

  I steel myself. Will he use the elements on me as he did with Bree, or does he have other methods in mind?

  I’ll have my answer soon.

  “For someone without an Elemental gift,” I say calmly, “you’re certainly overly invested in how they work.”

  “I could say the same of you,” he says. “Are we so different, Your Highness? Where others would attribute Elemental abilities to the will of the Makers, you and I know differently.”

  I stiffen. “I attend Mark service midweek just as everyone else does,” I say.

  “Would you if it wasn’t mandated?”

  Damn him, he’s right. It’s one of the most frustrating things about my father’s rule—that worship requirement. I’m not ready to say that the Makers don’t exist, but some of the tales revolving around them seem like little more than fairy stories to me. If they’re real, there must be more to them. And a mandatory service seems counterintuitive. Wouldn’t omniscient beings want people who choose their service rather than be forced into it? What value is there in someone whose mind is
not actively devoted to them?

  I don’t know the answers. And would it matter if I did? Neither the Mother nor the Father can save me now.

  Larsden’s trunk opens with a sinister creak, and I close my eyes. If the Makers exist, I only hope they protect me from whatever comes next.

  In the space between our escape from the palace and our escape from the capital itself, there’s much to be done and little time in which to do it. By now, the king’s search must have expanded beyond the city walls, but none of us are foolish enough to believe we’re safe here.

  “We’ve been over this,” I say impatiently, pushing my plate away. My appetite has waned in the days we’ve spent hiding in the cellar of The Soused Turkey. “We should leave at night. It’ll be darker. We’ll be harder to recognize.”

  “And again, I must say that I disagree.” Aleta stabs at the table with an emphatic finger. “There are more people wandering about the city during the day. We should blend in with the crowd.” Clift nods, taking her side.

  I turn to Tregle, but as usual, I can’t expect help from that besotted corner. He’s easily swayed to her line of thinking, unable to take his eyes off of her when she’s in her element and convinced that she’s right like this. I swear she and Tregle are able to hold entire conversations in averted gazes and repressed smiles. And they have one now, right in front of me.

  Aleta’s eyes flit to his and away in a move so quick it would make a hummingbird envious. I throw my hands in the air, giving up.

  “Fine. You win. Unless you’ve got something to add?” I ask Meddie, who’s joined us for breakfast this morning.

  She shrugs, depositing another bite into a mouth full of half-chewed food. Aleta’s lip curls as Meddie focuses on her meal. “Not me. I mean, someone’s already pointed out that fewer eyes about will mean fewer corpses to take care of.” She looks up at our quick intakes of breath. “Haven’t they?”

  Aleta’s stricken expression and Tregle’s uncharacteristic scowl in Meddie’s direction make our decision clear. We’ll leave at night.

  Leaning back, I massage my temples. Another plan made. Aleta shoves away from the table, not looking at the rest of us, and I wince. I regret that the decision had to come at the expense of Aleta’s recent turmoil. It’s not just this plan we’ve argued over. It’s everything—from how many valuables we should carry and how we should travel to where we should go.

  Clift collects our plates. “Better head downstairs, you lot. It’s nearing midday.”

  I sigh and stand, stretching. We file past Clift and Meddie, who offers us a brief salute before we descend to the cellar. During the early daylight, with the doors locked, it’s safe for us to emerge from our hole. We come upstairs like moles squinting into sunlight. By midday though, the pub is open for business, and we’re forced to be quiet downstairs.

  With nothing better to do, I lie down in the bedroll Clift obtained for me and leave Aleta and Tregle to themselves.

  I draw Da’s Underground token out, staring at it in the flickering light of the torches.

  When we venture into the cities on our travels, Clift’s assured us that the token will be enough to secure us allies—at least for a night. “We’re not the only ones who want that bastard Langdon out of power,” he’s said. “Even if you leave Egria, other countries are plenty willing to stop paying him a ‘protection’ tax. You’ll find allies there, too. Just wear the token and keep an eye out for the seal.”

  The token. I finger the chain I wear it on, remembering the moment Da pressed it into my hands. Just before King Langdon’s guards had dragged him away. That seems so long ago now.

  Had Da been a part of the Underground even in Abeline? I rack my memories of The Bridge and Duchess, trying to remember if I’d seen the swirl of air, the etch of flame anywhere in our décor, but I draw a blank. Maybe Da had broken those ties, too. The better to keep us hidden.

  “That didn’t work very well, did it? I found you anyway.”

  The purr has me stiffening instantly.

  I pointedly do not look in the corner of my vision where I’m sure I’ll see Lady Kat mock-pouting at me. Since I dreamt of her ghost, I can’t seem to stop seeing her. She’s my shadow, filtering in between the brief spots of sunlight in Clift’s pub, peering at me from behind corners.

  It will stop, I tell myself. It has to. It’s just…lack of sleep or something.

  I close my eyes to shut Kat out, and when I open them again, Tregle’s sprawled across his own bedroll, dispassionately flicking his fingers open and closed to ignite and extinguish a small flame. Aleta, on the other hand, has crossed the room to peer at me disapprovingly.

  “What in Egria is the matter with you?”

  I manage a weak smile. “Just tired,” I whisper.

  She taps the back of my hand smartly. “Well, you’d best wake up.”

  We continue plotting the next morning and discover Clift’s assistance comes with a caveat. I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone has caveats. Everyone wants something.

  He wants us to take Meddie along, promising that we won’t regret her escort.

  It’s laughable to me, that promise. I have so many regrets now. What’s one more?

  Still, we all protest, even Meddie. She’s needed here in the capital, she insists, but Clift silences her with a quick, “Medalyn. You wanted to help with the Underground effort. So help.”

  I exchange glances with the others. We haven’t told Clift or Meddie who I am—that I’m the sole rogue Water Thrower in Egria. That the king wants me far more than he wants even Aleta. That I’m a weapon. It’s not a secret we can entrust to anyone.

  But if we take her with us, Meddie will be someone that we’ll have to trust, to rely on. And she’ll be yet another person I have to hide the truth from.

  Sometimes, it feels like a geyser bubbling up in me, that truth. I want to scream what I know about myself now. And what it means I know about Aleta. About this war.

  I won’t tell anyone who I am…who I should have been. I’m not sure that I ever will. Because, in truth, this should be my quest to get a crown.

  I’m the one who was born Aleta of Nereidium, after all.

  But I don’t want the crown. I’m the only one left alive who knows that, and right now, I think I’d be better off if the truth died with me.

  I shiver as Kat, sitting beside me, runs icy fingers over my ears. “Give it time, dear one,” she murmurs. “Death comes for us all eventually.”

  When we finally acquiesce to take Meddie with us, her hand clenches on the table. “You all right?” I ask. My eyes flick over her. Her entire body is coiled as tight as a spring, and her brown eyes are tense.

  “Fine,” she says. She follows my raised eyebrow to her fist and hastily relaxes it, laying it flat on the table’s surface. “It’s just my first Underground mission, is all.”

  I bite my tongue, the incisors digging deep into the tip. Realistically, her company is a small price to pay for the Underground’s help, but I’m not sure how much use she’s going to be. She’s eighteen, and unless her Reveal is truly late, she has no Elemental gifts.

  That thought startles me. When did I start discounting peasants just because they can’t light a fire without a flint?

  “We’ll be all right,” I say with a confidence that I don’t feel. Meddie nods.

  Uneasily, I lean back in my seat and assure myself that I don’t care about her lack of Elemental powers. It’s only that she’s told me it’s her first mission that has me concerned. She has no experience.

  Not that I’m going to be much help. My Water Throwing’s left me, and sure, I can set a trap for small game—can even cook it as long as Aleta and Tregle handle the kindling. But I don’t know much about setting up a camp or navigating through the wilderness. Aleta, I’m sure, knows even less. Tregle might be able to cobble together some of his knowledge gained from his time as a military Adept, but will it be enough?

  We’ll know soon.

  Finally, the night
we’re to leave the city arrives.

  The night clouds whisper across the moon, plunging us further into darkness. I’ll be thankful if those clouds stick around to obscure the light. The more shadows to hide us, the better. In a way, I’m reminded of the night I entered the capital. The same sense of foreboding fills me, though I know I’m not being led to a dungeon. This time, nothing but questions lie before me.

  Since we can’t trek through the dinner crowd, we wait in an alley when The Soused Turkey opens for the night. One of Aleta’s heavy sapphire necklaces—some of our currency for this endeavor—hangs around my throat, clinking against Da’s Underground token.

  Aleta leans against the wall, and Tregle scuffs his feet at the ground. “How long?” he asks quietly, thumbs curled through his belt loops.

  “It shouldn’t be much—” I stiffen as steps approach. “Someone’s coming.”

  Tregle flattens Aleta against the wall, covering her form with his, and I duck behind them, my heartbeat erratic.

  “Ahem,” Meddie says. Immediately, my heart calms, resuming a normal rhythm. I step out from behind Aleta to look at Meddie. Her hands are on her hips, and though her shoulders are drawn as tight as if she was carrying a horse, faint amusement plays at her lips. “Think maybe you two could do that later, Lettie? Tregle?”

  Aleta pushes Tregle off of her, mouth pursed in a scowl at the short-name, and marches toward the alley’s mouth.

  We follow Meddie out of the alley to Clift’s waiting cart. Furtively, I cast an anxious look up at the sky as our party of four climbs in. We lay as flat as possible as he piles sacks of grain and empty barrels around us. He must have bargained hard for the grain—it’s not as though The Soused Turkey has a secret crop of wheat in the cellar.

  “Who’s watching the pub?” I ask to cover the pounding pulse in my throat.

  “A friend,” Meddie whispers back, touching her collarbone meaningfully.

  I nod in understanding. Another Underground ally, she means.

  A heavy canvas is draped over us, and Clift issues a reminder in a voice just above a breath. “Not a peep. Not from you or me. They see me talking to the empty air, they’re going to ask questions.”