She reached inside the broken music box, and took hold of a broken amber thread, a piece designed to amplify the sound. But instead of mending it, she rolled the thread between her fingers, then drew it long, tracing a loop around the wooden frame.
The queen watched, as if entranced. So entranced that she leaned closer, and as she did, her elbow knocked the cup of tea, and sent it off the table’s edge. The queen jerked, turning as the cup fell and shattered on the workshop floor. She frowned.
The crash had made no sound. Those piercing hazel eyes flew up to Tes.
“What have you done?” she asked, or at least, that is what Tes guessed she said. Her mouth formed the words. But nothing came out. Every sound in the workshop had suddenly been doused.
The queen’s gaze dropped to the music box on the table. She lunged for it, and as she did, Tes went for the cast-off manacles, grabbing them with one hand, the other pulling on the strings. The iron went soft as putty in her hands, and before the queen could reach the music box, Tes slammed the softened metal down over her wrists. The queen recoiled, but Tes had already let go, and the iron was iron again, fused to the metal surface.
Tes scrambled back, away from the table and the queen’s shocked expression.
“Solase,” she said, but the apology was nothing but a shape on her lips as she turned, and fled.
* * *
Tes ran, sound returning as she sprinted up the stairs. When the queen had come to fetch her, she’d been led up out of the prison, across a gallery, and down into another pillar. She’d seen two doors, the first, leading up into the palace above. The second, subtle as a crack in stone, and set into the pillar’s landing halfway up.
She reached it, and pulled—but it was locked.
Tes ran her hands over the iron. With time, she could have picked the lock, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she wrenched on the magic as hard as she could. The door crumpled, like paper, and tore free with a groan. Tes flung herself out, expecting to find steps, only to find nothing but air. She had just enough time to panic, to grasp that she was falling, about to plunge straight down into the river, before her boots landed on the soft earth a few feet below.
She stumbled forward, hands sinking into wet grass, the blades tinted red by the Isle’s glow. The riverbank. The sun had gone down, the sky above darkening from blue to black, casting the southern bank in deep shadow. Tes scrambled up the slope, crested the rise to find the lanterns of the night market glowing in the distance, the paths full and the tents alive with people.
Relief flooded through her.
She pulled her coat close, and started forward, intending to slip into the crowd and disappear. But as she crossed the lawn, a shadow stepped into her path. Even in the dark, Tes could see the black braid that rose like a crest over the woman’s head, the metal wrapped around her forearm. Her blood went cold.
“Well, hello there,” said Bex, strolling forward. “I told you we weren’t done.”
“I already destroyed the persalis,” said Tes, inching backward. Her heels slipped on the wet grass, only the slope and the river at her back. Or so she thought. Until Calin’s large, scarred arm swept around her shoulders, and hauled her up, off her feet.
“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” Tes gasped.
Bex inclined her head. “Let’s hope, for your sake, that isn’t true.”
Calin forced a cloth over her nose and mouth. She tried not to breathe, but soon her aching lungs betrayed her, dragging in the tainted air. Something sickly sweet coated her tongue, her throat, filled her head. The last thing she saw was the blurring lanterns of the market beyond Bex’s shoulder. And then they blinked out, one by one, and she was left in darkness.
Part Eleven
IN THE WRONG HANDS
I
Lila Bard was in a foul fucking mood.
Seven years, she’d watched Kell suffer. Seven years, without a way to make it stop. And now here one was, and he was saying no. Because there was a risk. Of course there was a risk, but that was the problem with these people born to magic, it made their lives too easy, it made things too sure. They did not seem to understand that sometimes living came with risks.
She cared for Rhy, of course, but she was tired of watching Kell sacrifice himself on his brother’s altar, as if his own life and pain meant nothing.
Fucking martyrs.
“Don’t leave the palace,” Kell had said, and for some reason she’d listened, at least at first, gone to the training grounds in the hopes of finding soldiers, guards, new recruits—anyone willing to spar. But the grounds had been empty.
So Lila walked—stomped, really, as if she could force her frustration down out of her body through the heels of her boots. She felt like a bottle of sparkling wine after it’s been shaken and before the cork bursts free. Her power churned beneath her skin, spilling into the air around her. Lanterns brightened as she passed. Pebbles shivered and skidded down the street.
She wanted a fucking fight, but clearly no one at the palace was willing, or able, so Lila did what she did best.
She went looking for trouble.
Her cuts hadn’t healed from the brawl in the tavern, but Lila didn’t care. She wondered if she could find the woman with the black braid, and finish what they’d started. She’d been a good enough opponent. Plenty of knives. What was her name?
Bex.
“Bex, Bex, Bex,” Lila mused aloud, as if she could be summoned. No Bex appeared, but that was fine—she’d had the look of a hired hand, and Lila knew where to go looking for those.
The shal.
The sun had gone down as she walked, and perhaps it was the thinning light behind her, or just a gut sense that she was going in the wrong direction, but Lila noticed how dark the sky was getting.
Her boots dragged to a stop. She scanned the horizon opposite the sun, and the faint light of emerging stars, and realized—
There was no moon rising.
No smudge of white, or hangnail sliver. The image on the coin’s edge came back to her. Full moon. Or moonless.
Lila checked her watch. It was early, just after nine, but she had nowhere else to go. She turned to the nearest wall, fist clenching, nails biting into the cut she’d made to heal the girl. Pain lanced through her palm as the cut reopened. She touched the blood, and drew the mark on the stone—a vertical line and two small crosses—before splaying her hand flat against the mark.
“As Tascen.”
The city dropped away, and shuddered back into shape a moment later, her hand pressed to a different wall, on a different street, the same mark humming faintly beneath her skin. Lila pushed off the wall, and turned to face the house at 6 Helarin Way, prepared to wait all night if she had to.
It turned out, she wouldn’t have to wait at all.
The house, which had been dark that morning, and the night before, had already undergone a transformation. Carriages now lined the street out front, and lanterns dripped from every window, and the grim smile of the gate had broken wide.
And Lila knew exactly what it was.
A pleasure garden. Just like Tanis had told her.
Clusters of men and women strode up the walk. A few were dressed as if attending a royal ball, and Lila briefly considered relieving someone of their fine clothes, the better to blend in, but decided against it when she saw others dressed more plainly.
She crossed the street, slowing as a pair of gentlemen stepped down out of a nearby carriage. One wore a velvet, high-collared coat, the other, a black vest over a tunic, but both spoke with the clear tones of ostra.
“… called the Veil,” said the one in velvet. “It changes venue every time. Took me a month to track it down, but I’ve heard it’s worth the work.”
“How did you find out where it would be?” asked the vest.
“It’s a secret,” said the velvet.
“Pretty crowded secret,” said the vest.
And he was right.
When Lila first found the message on the coin, she had imagined a far more clandestine arrangement, held in the hidden chambers of a darkened house, far away from prying ears and searching eyes. After all, the Hand had been at work for months, and never been caught.