A watering party, Y’shennria explains, is when—during hot summer days—nobles gather to drink and play outdoor games in the shade. She approves my pale, primrose-green and primrose-petal-thin outdoors dress, laced with little seed pearls in hypnotizing spiral patterns. Malachite offers to ride with me in the carriage, and while Y’shennria insists it’s improper, Malachite counters that it’s for my safety. They stare each other down, his bloodred eyes just as stern as her hazel ones for a moment. Finally, she relents.
“Take care of her, Sir Malachite. She’s very important to me.” Hearing her say that has my unheart in my throat. Y’shennria leans into the carriage window as if to hide herself from Malachite’s gaze. “Be careful. Ensure you act injured. The archduke will not soon overlook a missed flinch from your wrist.”
“Don’t worry. I learned from the best, didn’t I?” I smile, and Y’shennria snorts, though it isn’t a disapproving one at all.
“I suppose you did.”
Malachite climbs into the carriage with me, and Fisher nicks the horses into a trot. Malachite’s legs are so long I have to squeeze into the opposite corner to avoid touching him.
“Are all Beneathers as tall as you?” I grumble, not intending to say it so loud, but he hears it anyway and laughs.
“You’ll be happy to know most of us are rather short,” he says. “But once in a while a Beneather is born strangely. It doesn’t pay to be my height underground. My forehead’s gotten to be great friends with nearly every single rock in Pala Amna.”
“Pala Amna?”
“The Final City,” Malachite clarifies. “Our haven. Well, the last haven the Beneather empire has left. The valkerax chased us out of the rest hundreds of years ago.”
“They liked the taste of you that much, did they?” I stop. “You know, that sounded less terrible in my head.”
“I’m sure.” He snorts. “But, no. It takes more than a bit of Beneather flesh to bring a thousand screeching valkerax out of the Dark Below.” He pauses. “That’s what we call the underground world, in case you didn’t know.”
“You’re an excellent teacher of Beneather culture. Why, you should’ve seen the look on Archduke Gavik’s face when I asked him if he had any vachiayis last night.”
Malachite laughs, so loud a flock of startled sunbirds take off into the air. He watches the scenery of the noble quarter flash by, crimson eyes reflecting the metal of lawguard armor and the whitestone of the buildings. I can’t imagine an entire empire below my feet—dozens of miles down. The thought of the cavities beneath the earth holding screeching, fang-laden valkerax is terrifying. The only thing I do know about Beneathers is what everyone seems to know—they keep the valkerax from escaping into the world above by becoming peerless warriors. The broadsword on Malachite’s back gleams ominously. I’m utterly convinced that despite his carefree attitude and disrespect for authority, he’d be a monstrous challenge in a fight. It’s no small wonder King Sref hired him to be Lucien’s bodyguard.
“I was supposed to be there, you know,” Malachite says. “With you and Luc, at that raid.”
“No one begrudges you a vacation day, or twelve.” Least of all me. It’s never been a question—taking Lucien’s heart will be possible only if Malachite is absent.
“Vacations be damned—there was a guy sneaking around Lucien’s bedroom, so I had to do a bit of last-minute interrogation. With my sword to his throat.”
“Get any good bits?” I inquire.
“Oh, you know: The d’Malvanes have been in power too long, King Sref took my son from me, so I’m taking his from him, Prince Lucien stands for everything I hate about nobles. The usual.”
At least one of those sounded like something I used to catch myself thinking. “I find it hard to believe wanting to kill the Crown Prince is ‘the usual.’”
Malachite shrugs. “King Sref isn’t a popular guy. Assassins aren’t uncommon, but this one—” He gnaws his pale thumb. “No. Never mind.”
“You can tell me,” I tease him. “My mouth might look big, but I assure you, I keep my words small.”
He chuckles, then falls quiet. “It was just strange. All his lines sounded rehearsed. He was still scared, but he wouldn’t crack, wouldn’t deviate from his story. Just kept saying the same lines over and over. And his blade—”
Malachite fishes a dagger out of his armor. The smell hits me instantly—white mercury. There, inside the handle, is a broken vial leaking a little white.
“It was this weird thing,” Malachite presses. “That’s white mercury, right?”
I nod. “As far as I know.”
“The royal polymaths told me this stuff dulls magic if it gets inside a witch or Heartless. It isn’t cheap or easy to come by. And the polymaths keep most of it under lock and key. So why was a common assassin trying to kill a human prince with a white mercury weapon? And who gave it to him?”
The celeon assassin who tried to kill me before I left Nightsinger floats to the surface of my mind. The witches said someone in Vetris was sending assassins out with those white mercury weapons to test them on Heartless and witches. The royal polymaths, maybe? No—I know better than that. I know who controls them.
“The d’Malvanes are a witch family, right?” I ask lightly, though my words carry deep shadow.
Malachite nods. “Supposedly.”
“There’s one person who really hates witches and has access to white mercury who comes immediately to mind,” I try. “Archduke Gavik.”
He goes still and exhales, putting the dagger away. “Dark Below—I hope it wasn’t him.”
“Don’t think you can take him?” I ask.
Malachite snorts. “I’d cleave that genocidal old coot in two with one hand. I’m just worried what it means for Lucien. They’ve never been on great terms. White mercury or no, Gavik’s never tried to kill him outright, though. If he is now, it means Gavik is confident in his total power. It means Lucien is in more danger than I thought.”
“You’ll be happy to know, then, that Lucien, Lady Himintell, and I have formed sort of a…coalition against him. I like to call it the United Army of Kicking Gavik’s Moldy Arsehole into the Afterlife. You’re welcome to join.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I heard. Maybe I will. Just be careful, will you? That Himintell girl tends to let her desire for revenge block out the consequences of her actions, for both herself and others.”
“Did Lady Himintell—did she care about Princess Varia that much?”
“Still does,” Malachite agrees. “I wasn’t there before Varia died, but I was there for the aftermath. Fione worshipped her. Loved her, if I had to guess. Revenge doesn’t burn that hot unless you’ve lost the one you love.”
Love. It makes sense, falls into place—why Fione is risking so much. A foggy tendril of sadness worms into my heart locket; a love unfulfilled. I hope Fione got to tell Varia how she felt, at the very least. The more I find out about her life, the harder and harder it gets to cling to my jealousy of her.
The carriage stops in front of the palace, and Malachite and I get out and head toward the watering party gathered on the lawn beneath the oaks. The sun is piercing today, the air thick and hot like steam. Inside a moving carriage it was bearable, but now it suffocates me. The shade is only mildly cooler, and when I draw into it I realize the nobles at this party are entirely my age—the only adults are handmaids fanning their charges and palace servants offering cups of chilled barley wine. The Priseless twins are here, though they can’t meet my eyes with Malachite next to me. Charm and Grace are here, too, unfortunately, but both of them ignore me. Lucien sits beneath a tree surrounded by a few celeon royal guards. Malachite shoos them off, quickly retaking his place by Lucien’s side. The prince seems relieved to have Malachite back, and I can understand why now—Gavik might not have control over the royal guards like he does the lawguards, but influencing them would be a simple matter of manipulating King Sref. And Gavik’s proven he can do that—even if it means killing the Crown Prince
ss.
Perhaps Gavik, too, knows that to get to Prince Lucien, Malachite has to be out of the picture. The thought sends a cold chill down my spine despite the summer heat.
Fione walks up to me in a beige off-shoulder dress, her ivory cane sinking into the grass and the curls in her high ponytail shuddering with her slightest head movement.
“Lady Zera!” she chimes. “So very good to see you. Have a walk with me, would you?”
I take her arm and we walk a little way from the party, the nobles absorbed in their game—something played with silver throwing sticks and triangular dice. When Fione’s sure we’re alone, she speaks softly.
“I’ve informed His Glowering Highness over there of my plan, but I haven’t informed you. Let’s correct that oversight.” She turns us at a hydrangea bush, the brilliant magenta flowers temporarily hiding us from view of the other nobles.
“My ultimate goal is to provide King Sref with irrefutable evidence that my uncle had Princess Varia killed,” Fione murmurs. “The king is my uncle’s one check. Varia is the king’s one weakness. If he knows my uncle killed her, he’ll orchestrate his downfall swiftly and surely. But my uncle is nothing if not very good at covering his tracks.”
“Better than you are?” I marvel at the path she leads me through—around trees, between bushes, and behind fountains, smiling at me all the while. To the outsider it must look like a perfectly innocent walk.
“Where do you think I learned it from?” She laughs. “But that isn’t the point. My uncle might’ve relished—” She swallows anger. “Killing Varia. But there’s one thing he relishes more than eliminating his enemies.”
“Executing innocents?” I ask lightly. She shakes her head.
“Acquiring technology. You’ve seen the prince’s sword, right?”
“Is that a dirty joke? And here I thought Y’shennria said you were the perfect lady.” Fione mimes vomiting, and I can’t help laughing. “The prince has Varia’s sword, right?”
She bends and picks a water lily out of one of the man-made rivers. “He does now. But it’s my belief my uncle had it first, before the court got news she’d been killed.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Fione buries her nose in the flower, the petals shading her mouth. “That sword is rare—a marvel of smithing expertise. There was only one polymath in the world capable of imbuing white mercury into metal seamlessly. He made four swords in the war at King Drevenis’s deathbed request and then disappeared.”
The prince’s sword is white mercury? I make a note not to be cut by it anytime soon. Fione hands the water lily to me.
“Some say the polymath was overcome with guilt for making such powerful witch-killing weapons. He left behind no blueprints, no apprentice. The swords were destroyed in battles, or lost in the fog of the Sunless War. No one else has been able to replicate the technique since. And it drives my uncle mad to this day.”
“I’m sure he’d love nothing more than to arm his lawguards with a thousand witch-killing swords,” I muse.
Fione nods. “Exactly. Everything changed when King Sref presented Varia with one of the swords. My uncle coveted it, tried to get Varia to give it to him to study, but she knew his devious ways and refused. He killed her for many reasons, but the sword is the only tangible reason—the only hard evidence left.”
I furrow my brow, but she just smiles wider at me—one of her strong and insincere smiles.
“The night she was killed, I believe my uncle’s people delivered the news she’d died, and her sword, to him first. He had a whole day to study the sword before he returned it to the lawguard reporting the news to the royal family. He must have some notes on it, somewhere. If I can find those notes, I can prove he had the sword—that he knew Varia had been killed before the rest of us. That he arranged it with his own two hands.”
I’m silent. It’s a sound line of thinking, but so convoluted and dangerous it sets me on edge.
“He’s been trying to replicate Varia’s blade for five years now, but his attempts are clumsy,” Fione presses. “Yet every year, they get better. He must have notes.”
I think back to the dagger with the vial in it that I was stabbed with, and the one Malachite found on the assassin. Clumsy indeed, but effective. I look up at her.
“So what do we do? I imagine walking up and asking him politely for these notes is out of the question.”
She laughs softly. “Quite. I know how my uncle thinks—what places he’d keep something so precious to him. I’ve narrowed it down to two such locations. And if I have my way today, I’ll finally get the clue I need to narrow it down to one.”
“Do I get any details, or are you just going to point me at a crowd and tell me to do my thing?”
She claps her hands excitedly. “Oh Lady Zera, this is what I like about you! Straight to the point. I need you to draw out my uncle from his study. The window of his office is on this side of the palace, so he can see us now, and he will definitely notice any ruckus you cause here at the party.”
“You’re the one who knows him. How do you suggest I go about it?”
“Hmm, let’s see—he likes watching people suffer, and Pendronic milk scones, and displays of martial prowess—”
“Martial prowess,” I repeat. “Like a fight? A duel?”
Her smile grows delighted. “Exactly like a duel.” She looks around at the noble boys, then sighs. “Except he’s seen everyone here duel, including the prince. It’ll be nothing new, unless we raise the stakes or perhaps cause an injury to his favorite Priseless twins—”
“As much as I like the sound of that last one, he hasn’t seen me duel.”
Fione’s eyes spark. “You duel?”
“Enough to know a parry from a riposte.”
“A girl dueling—a Spring Bride, nonetheless…” Fione whispers to herself, then looks up at me. “It just might work.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Ten minutes. Three to get in, five to undo his puzzle-locks, and two to get out.”
“And you won’t be caught?”
“If I am, it was nice knowing you, Lady Zera.”
“You’re willing to risk your life for this?” I press. “For revenge?” Fione just smiles wider.
“Revenge? No. Justice? Yes.” She turns. “I’ll leave you to it. If I see an opening, I’m gone. Thank you in advance.”
She leaves me to hang at the edge of the nobles’ dice game. Winded by all this new information, I approach Lucien at his spot under the trees. Malachite gives me a little wave, and Lucien’s frown lightens as he observes his partying peers.
“Took you long enough,” he says, an edge of imperiousness to his voice. Malachite nudges him roughly.
“Just tell her you’re happy she’s here, you grump.”
A laugh bubbles up from me. “Not only do you have no sense of decorum, Malachite—you also have no grasp on reality. The day the prince is happy to see me is the day Vetris welcomes witches within its walls.”
Malachite and I share a chuckle, but Lucien’s face remains stone, his dark iron eyes on me. Our laughter peters out quickly, and I clear my throat to cover the awkward silence.
“I was wondering, Your Highness—”
“Lucien,” he insists instantly.
“Lucien.” I start again, a moth beating its wings against my empty chest. “Do you enjoy dueling?”
“Very much so—especially if there are new opponents.”
I give him a smile and excuse myself, my hands trembling mildly. Nervousness. Why did he look so serious? Surely I was right—the prince is no happier to see me than any other loudmouth blackmailer. I expected him to agree, to throw out some biting retort in unison. But he’d said nothing.
The almost-kiss last night lingers in my mind, but I plaster a smile on and approach the party’s game. It doesn’t take long to plant the idea of a duel in their heads—a chance for the boys to impress the ladies, and a chance for the ladies to have the boys compe
te for their affection. The boys shed their heavy overcoats in anticipation of the sweat they’ll work up, the girls tittering madly at one fewer layer than usual. Servants fetch swords and place brightly colored rice pouches on the ground to denote the dueling arena. Girls work out bets between them—the clear favorite to win is Lord Grat, a broad-shouldered Secondblood boy built like an ox, his neck thicker than my not-insubstantial thigh. He lunges against an invisible opponent as he warms up, his thrusts with his longsword impressively quick for his size. Grat sees me staring and waves, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“I’ll win this duel for you, Lady Zera!”
The girls giggle, and I do my best to fake a flattered blush. Next to me, someone whistles. I turn to see Malachite watching Lord Grat with me.
“Not bad. A few more years of growing and he might be strong enough to take on a hatchling valkerax.”
I look Malachite up and down. He’s slenderer than Lucien by far, though they’re equally broad. “How strong are you?”
Malachite laughs. “What, don’t I look that beefy?”
“I was thinking more…chickeny.”
He clucks his tongue. “You’re the worst. All I do is look out for you, and you call me fowl.” I gloss over the pun with a groan, but Malachite presses on. “Beneathers are stronger than we look. Not celeon strong, certainly, but strong enough. It helps too that we have certain…resistances.”
“To fire?” I ask. “You said you walked through that fake witchfire, when we first introduced ourselves.”
“Very good, milady.” He claps sarcastically. “You’ve been paying attention.”
I give him a rude gesture, but he just laughs again. Lucien joins us, red waistcoat standing out among all the coatless boys.
“A duel?” He quirks a midnight brow. “I hope you didn’t start one intending for me to participate, Lady Zera. I’ve fought these idiots before—none of them are very good.”
I glance up at the window Fione pointed to. Gavik’s window. Lucien’s right—the prince fighting a bunch of nobles won’t nearly be enough to drag the archduke from his office. But if Prince Lucien fights a girl, and his Spring Bride, besides—