Kosika turned. “I didn’t mean to.”
The other girl only shrugged, and moved another piece on the board. “But you did.”
Kosika’s heart began to race, and at the same time a breeze kicked up in the room, even though the windows were closed. What about Lark? What if they’d hurt him? What if she had? She had to go, had to find her friend. She went to the massive door, and pushed, and pulled, with all her strength, but it didn’t move.
“It’s locked,” said Nasi, as if that wasn’t obvious.
Kosika looked around at the chamber, at the lush tapestries that covered the floor and hung from the walls. The room was big, bigger than her whole house, and made entirely of stone. “Are we prisoners?”
The girl studied the board. “I’m not,” she said. “As for you, maybe.” Kosika would learn that Nasi didn’t bother with gentle lies. She believed it was always better to know the truth. “But,” she went on, “there are far worse places to be kept.”
Nasi held out the bowl of fruit, and Kosika’s hand darted forward, quick-fingered, before the other girl could pull it away. But Nasi only held it, and waited, and Kosika’s hand slowed, her eyes searching. She took a plum, and bit down, shocked by the sweetness.
Nasi took one, too.
“If you want to leave,” she said, studying the fruit, “I’m really not sure they could stop you.”
Kosika thought of the destruction in the street below, and wondered if the other girl was right. She was about to find out. Turning back to the door, she pressed her hands flat against it, and focused. She could feel the wood, and the metal, the place where they met. She began to pull and—
“What are you doing?” asked Nasi.
“I have to find Lark.”
“Blond boy?” ventured the other girl. “Dark eyes? Covered in blood?”
Kosika rounded on her. “You’ve seen him? Where is he?”
“Last time I checked, he was in the kitchens, eating the Vir out of bread and cheese and everything else.”
“Vir?”
“The royal guard. That’s what they call themselves. Very proud, dressed all in silver.”
Kosika remembered the pale man who knelt before her. Patjoric.
Nasi waved her over to the board. Kosika came. Up close, she saw the pieces were not all the same. There were knights. And cloaked figures. Children. And kings.
“It’s called kol-kot,” explained the girl, clearing the pieces from the board until there was only a white-and-silver king. “When Holland Vosijk took the throne,” she said, “the Vir were the first to bend their knee. The first to believe that he was the Someday King.”
As she spoke, she added white-and-silver knights to the board, one by one, until they formed a circle around the king. Kosika counted them: thirteen.
“Now the king is dead.” Nasi lifted the figure from the center of the circle, and set it, almost gently, to the side. “And the Vir are trying to hold the peace, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along to claim the empty throne by force. But they’re hoping it won’t come to that, not if you take Holland’s place.”
Kosika reeled. “Why me?”
“Well,” said Nasi, setting another piece—a child—in the circle, “because you are like him. Antari.”
Antari. Kosika didn’t know that word, and it must have shown on her face, because Nasi rose, unfolding her narrow limbs from the chair. She was clearly older than Kosika, but still half-grown. Closer to Lark’s age, maybe nine or ten, her cheeks full, but her arms and legs thin, as if she were sprouting up at different rates.
Nasi went to a shelf by the bed and lifted a small mirror. She came over and held it up for her to see. Kosika studied her reflection.
She was still an in-between girl, with in-between skin and in-between hair. But only one of her eyes was its usual in-between shade. The other was now black from edge to edge and lid to lid, like someone had poured ink into the socket. Kosika recoiled at the sight, scrubbing furiously as if she could clear the stain. But when she pulled her hand away, it was still there.
“Eyes like that are rare,” said Nasi. “It’s a mark of magic. The last king had an eye like yours, and he woke up the world. Now you have one, and they think maybe it’s a sign. Maybe the magic will keep coming back, so long as an Antari stays on the throne. Maybe you can keep the city from plunging into war. Maybe they will look at you and see a good omen, a beacon of change. Or maybe,” she went on, “they will see a helpless child standing in their way, and cut your throat.”
Kosika swallowed, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the mirror. She reached out and touched the glass, even as her heart thrilled in her chest.
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing,” said Nasi. “Just stay. And stay alive.” She handed the mirror off to Kosika. “And try not to destroy any more of the city.”
With that, she went toward the door, and knocked three times.
“What are you doing?”
“Letting them know you’re awake.”
A heavy bolt slid free, and the door swung open onto a hallway, and a silver guard—a Vir. He looked past Nasi to her, and then sank to one knee, head bowed.
“Kosika,” he said softly, and it took her a moment to realize he was not addressing her by name, but title.
Little queen.
III
NOW
The sun was high by the time Kosika reached the second station on the pier.
Her fingers were sticky with sugar, and stained red. She’d eaten the bun on the walk from the castle to the plaza at the river’s edge, dusting the last traces of pastry from her palms along with flecks of drying blood.
The crowd along the Sijlt was twice as large as that in front of the castle, and twice as boisterous, the mood made bright by the second tithe’s reward: a steaming cup of cider wine. The drums played on, counting out the city’s pulse, but here they were joined by other music. Nearby a woman sat on a rooftop, singing a song about the Someday King, and merchants sold food to go with the gifted drink, and Kosika’s arrival was heralded with cheers, and bows, the crowd parting to allow their queen and her guard, then folding closed again, as if she were a fire, and they hoped to feel her heat.
Nasi and two of the Vir had yet to make their second tithe, so Kosika stopped to watch and wait. Lark caught her gaze, lifted a cup of wine, and winked, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes, even as her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t sure why his smile did that to her. She didn’t want his attention, not like that. And yet, when he turned that smile on a pretty girl in the crowd, she felt the warmth curdle.
“I don’t blame you,” observed Nasi, wrapping the strip of white cloth around her hand. “He is pleasing to look at.”
“Then you may have him,” said Kosika, too fast.
“How kind,” said Nasi, “but I prefer your company.”
Kosika ducked her head to hide her smile.
The truth was, she loved them both, always had, but these days, Kosika loved Nasi and Lark with a need that frightened her, a hunger that climbed into her bones and burned there, and made her want to hold them close, to bind them to her. She thought of the Danes, binding Holland, and wondered if it had been an act of hate, or necessity—a need to keep him close, to feel them linked. Not that she would ever follow in their footsteps.
Then the way was clear, and it was time.
Kosika approached the pier, and the second altar.
This Holland Vosijk stood waiting for her, no longer on his knees, but standing upright on a plinth over the water. A polished black crown circled his stone temples, and his two-toned gaze looked straight ahead, at his city, at her. A carved cloak lifted behind him, caught in a permanent breeze, and his boots vanished into the basin at his feet, his reflection rippling in red.