King Ronan nodded, clearly pleased. “My nephew has more sense than the rest of you put together. The other kingdoms created a breeding ground for magic. They let this filth infect their populations over many years. I promised my people a triumphant return to a better time.”
“Yes, Father.” Karri’s voice sizzled. “I read the decree. Did you know it was one of the first texts my tutor gave me when I was learning to read? ‘A triumphant return to the greatness of old, when Glas Ddir was both respected and feared.’”
Princess Karri could always be depended on to speak her mind. Even so, Mia couldn’t believe how brash she was being, especially with such a large audience. The stonemalt had loosened her lips. Karri’s conviction was unnerving; it snaked through Mia’s head with the uncomfortable aura of truth.
But she couldn’t accept it. Though it turned her stomach, she had to side with the king, at least on this. Gwyrach were born, not bred. Their troubled ancestry was legend: after the gods mated with human women centuries ago, the early Gwyddon birthed daughters, those daughters birthed daughters, and the lineage continued. But some of these daughters were no human girls. They were demons, each generation more wicked than the last.
Mia was a scientist, not a mystic. She’d always had her doubts about the origin myths. But the empirical evidence was irrefutable. She had spent three years studying every heinous act the Gwyrach had committed, and the list was long. They held grudges, and they never forgot. They melted skin off bones, swamped lungs with phlegm and fluid, burned whole hearts out of innocent people’s chests. The Gwyrach no longer used their power to heal: only to enthrall, wound, and kill.
“Every living being has the capacity for both good and evil,” Karri said. “Something you, Father, have never understood. Queen Bronwynis believed the more we understand magic, the better we can harness its power for good.”
The color was high in the king’s sallow face. “Do not ever speak her name.”
A hush fell over the Gallery. In the kitchens, a cup clattered to the ground.
Mia’s body was behaving strangely. Her humerus bones hummed at the elbow joints, arm muscles clenching and unclenching of their own accord. She could feel her ribs pricking the hollows of her chest—and it wasn’t just the corset. She clutched the table to keep herself from keeling into her flambé.
“If I have a foolish daughter by blood, perhaps I will acquire a better one by marriage.” The king’s ice-blue eyes sliced into Mia. “The floor is yours, Lady Mia. Give us a rousing toast.”
The breath scraped through her chest. She was acutely aware of the ruby wren beneath her dress, red-hot, a smoking coal against her heart. Mia felt all eyes on her as she reached for her goblet. For once she was grateful for the slinkskin; it hid her trembling fingers.
Heart for a heart, she reminded herself. Life for a life.
“A toast,” she said, trying to smooth out the quaver in her voice. “To the Circle of the Hunt: the true heroes of this feast. They are the warriors who purge the four kingdoms of magic. The brave souls who risk their lives to keep us safe.”
She looked at her father, whose face was inscrutable. A burst of anger flowered in her sternum. It was his fault she would never search the four kingdoms for her mother’s killer. But why wasn’t he searching? Why had he given up? Mia would have stopped at nothing to avenge her mother—even if it cost her life.
An idea was weaving itself together in her mind. If she were barred from seeking justice for her mother, she could at least empower the Hunters to do so in her place.
She hefted her goblet a touch higher, her words gaining vigor. “When I am princess, I will do everything in my power to make sure the Hunters have everything they need. Today the Circle numbers thirteen. Someday they will be ten times that. May my presence in the Kaer strike fear into the heart of every living Gwyrach.”
For a moment, the Gallery was choked with silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Mia thought she saw the scullery maid shrinking back into the kitchens. Her father was squeezing the life out of his dinner napkin, his expression pained. And were those tears on Angie’s cheeks?
Mia’s gaze fell on Prince Quin. His mouth was twisted into an almost smile, a mixture of admiration and concern. But no sooner had their eyes met than he looked away. He busied himself scratching his dogs behind the ears, their fur shining like burnished bronze in the firelight.
It was Tristan who broke the silence.
“Brazen words from a not yet princess.” He wiped the sneer off his face before turning to the king. “But let’s be sensible, Your Grace. If we’re going to talk politics, isn’t it time the ladies retire?”
Outside the Gallery, Angelyne stalked past without a word. She bristled when Mia touched her arm.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“What’s wrong? Are you angry with me?”
“Not angry. Just tired.”
Angie spun out of her reach and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Mia perplexed. “Batten the hatches,” she murmured, “bring down the sails.” But her sister was already gone.
The queen had retired to her chambers, so Mia and Karri stood alone—quite uncomfortably, in light of their positions on the subject of Gwyrach. The princess’s fingers tapped absently against her broad leather belt as if itching for her sword.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Mia began. “I didn’t mean to—”
Karri waved her off. “You are entitled to your own opinion. The day we forfeit our opinions, we are truly lost. But as I will soon be your sister, may I offer one small piece of advice?”
Mia nodded.
“Be wary of my father, Mia. You may share a common enemy, but he is not your friend.”
Chapter 6
Painfully Small
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO avoid the Hands.
The Hall of Hands was nestled in the central corridor of the Kaer’s stony heart, a proud showpiece for foreign dignitaries. Never mind the flow of dignitaries had trickled to a standstill after King Ronan sealed the borders—there were still plenty of servants and courtiers to shudder at the Hands.
Or in Mia’s case: reluctant brides.
Usually she hurried through the Hall, but tonight, as she wound her way back to her chambers, she slowed her gait.
The room was cavernous, more sanctuary than hall, and always strangely warm. The air was fragrant with the smell of vinegar and moldering meat. Clasped in iron manacles on every wall were cream-colored candles bathing the Hall in soft light. A servant kept watch from the shadows to ensure the fires never went out.
And in the flickering candlelight were the Hands.
For every Gwyrach captured, King Ronan took her left hand. He sawed it off while she was still alive and kept it as a trophy. A few days earlier, Mia had wandered into a restricted part of the castle and heard screaming. Demon screams, she’d told herself as she swiftly retreated. But they sounded human.
Eight carpal bones in the wrist: the hamate, capitate, scaphoid, pisiform, lunate, triquetral, trapezoid, and trapezium. Five metacarpals. Three tendons. Countless aponeuroses and ligaments. The ulnar and radial arteries, shunting blood through the sturdy arm bones to the joints and sutures. Mia couldn’t help but wonder how long it took, cutting through all that blood and bone.
Once removed, the Hands were placed in an earthenware pot with salt, vinegar, and powder of zimat. After seven days of pickling they were baked in the sun. The servants made a candle from the corpse’s fat, mixing the tallow with rosewater. Thus with every new Hand, new light poured into the Hall.
The Hands themselves were gray and brown and black, the fresher ones a bruised purple. Often the finger bones poked through the rotted flesh. Some were displayed in glass cases, artfully arranged on crimson velvet pillows. Others were strung from the rafters by long leather straps. When Mia walked past them, they twirled in silent pirouettes.