Zélie’s eyes water once more. I don’t know what chord I’ve struck. Her sea-salt soul seems to shrink away. For the first time, I want it to stay.
“Your magic isn’t poison.” Her voice shakes. “You are. You push it down, you fight it back. You carry around that pathetic toy.” She stomps over and rips the sênet pawn out of my hand, shoving it in my face. “This is majacite, you idiot. I’m surprised all your fingers haven’t fallen off.”
I stare at the tarnished pawn, the gold and brown rust hiding its original color. I always thought the piece was painted black, but could it really have been made of majacite the whole time?
I take it from her hands, holding it gently, feeling the way it pricks my skin. All this time I thought I was just squeezing too tight.
Of course …
I almost laugh at the irony. The realization brings me back to the moment I got it. The day Father “gifted” it to me.
Before the Raid, we played sênet every week. An hour where Father became more than a king. Every piece and move was a lesson, wisdom for the day I would lead.
But after the Raid, there was no time for games. No time for me. One day I made the mistake of carrying the game into the throne room and Father threw the pieces in my face.
Leave it, he barked when I bent down to pick them up. Servants clean. Kings don’t.
This pawn was the only piece I managed to salvage.
Shame ripples through me as I stare at the tarnished metal.
The only gift he’s ever given me, and at its core is hate.
“This belonged to my father,” I speak quietly. A secret weapon taken from others who despised magic. Created to destroy others like me.
“You clutch it the way a child clutches a blanket.” Zélie releases a heavy sigh. “You fight for a man who will always hate you just because of what you are.”
Like her hair, her silver gaze glows in the moonlight, more piercing than any eyes that have ever seen through me. I stare.
I stare though I need to talk.
I drop the pawn in the dirt and kick it aside. I must draw a line in the sand. I’ve been a sheep. A sheep when my kingdom needed me to act like a king.
Duty before self.
The creed unravels before my eyes, taking Father’s lies with it. Magic may be dangerous, but the sins of eradicating it have made the monarchy no better.
“I know you can’t trust me, but give me this chance to prove myself. I’ll get us into that camp. I’ll bring your brother back.”
Zélie bites her lip. “And when we find the scroll?”
I hesitate; Father’s face flashes in my mind. If we don’t stop magic, all of Or?sha will burn.
But the only fires I’ve seen have been by his hand. His and mine. I’ve given him a lifetime. I can’t abide by any more of his lies.
“It’s yours,” I decide. “Whatever you and Amari are trying to do … I won’t stand in your way.”
I hold out my hand and she stares at it; I don’t know if my words are enough. But after a long moment, she places her palm in mine. A strange warmth fills me at her touch.
To my surprise, her hands are calloused, perhaps toughened from using her staff. When we let go, we avoid each other’s eyes, instead staring at the night sky.
“So we’re doing this?” she asks.
I nod. “I’ll show you what type of king I can be.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ZéLIE
OYA, PLEASE LET THIS WORK.
I lift up a silent prayer as my heart thumps against my chest. We move through the shadows, crouching at the periphery of the masks’ camp. My plan seemed perfect before, but now that it’s time, I can’t stop thinking of all the ways it could fail. What if Tzain and Amari aren’t inside? What if we have to face off against a maji? And what about Inan?
I glance at him, dread building at the sight. My plan starts with me handing the little prince the sunstone; either I’ve lost my mind, or I’ve already lost this fight.
Inan peers ahead, jaw tight as he takes a count of the guards surrounding the gate. Instead of his usual armor, he wears the black attire the captive fighter wore.
I still can’t tell what to make of him, of all the things he made me feel. Watching his misguided hate brought me back, wrapping me in the darkest days after the Raid. I despised magic. I blamed Mama.
I cursed the gods for making us this way.
A lump forms in my throat as I try to forget that old pain. I can still feel the shadow of the lie inside, pushing me to hate my blood, rip out my white hair.
It almost ate me alive, the self-hatred spun from Saran’s lies. But he already took Mama. I couldn’t let him take the truth, too.
In the moons following the Raid, I held on to Mama’s teachings, embedding them in my heart until they ran through me like blood. No matter what the world said, my magic was beautiful. Even without powers, the gods had blessed me with a gift.
But Inan’s tears brought it all back, the lethal lie this world forces us to swallow. Saran did well.
Inan already hates himself more than I ever could.
“Alright,” he whispers. “It’s time.”
It takes an unusual amount of effort to unclench my fingers and hand him my leather pack.
“Don’t overextend yourself,” he warns. “And remember, keep some animations behind to provide a defense.”
“I know, I know.” I roll my eyes. “Get on with it.”
Though I don’t want to feel anything, my stomach clenches as Inan emerges from the shadows and stalks toward the gate. The memory of his rough hand in my own comes back to me. A strange comfort filled me from his touch.
The two masked figures posted at the entrance point their weapons. The ones hidden in the shadows shift as well. From above, I hear a chorus of plucks: bowstrings with arrows being pulled taut.
Though I know Inan can sense it all, he walks with brash confidence. He doesn’t stop until he’s hundreds of meters ahead, halfway between me and the entrance.
“I’ve come to make a trade,” he declares. “I have something you want.”
He drops my pack to the ground and removes the sunstone. I should’ve prepared him for the rush. Even from afar, I hear a gasp.
A tremor runs from his hands to his head, his palms pulsing with a soft blue light. I wonder if Orí appears behind his eyes.
The show is exactly what the masks needs. A few slither out of the shadows and begin to circle him, weapons raised and ready to strike.
“On your knees,” a masked woman barks, cautiously leading the charge outside the gate. She points her ax and gives a nod, drawing more of their fighters out of hiding.
Gods. There are already more than we bargained for. Forty … fifty … sixty? How many more aim at him from the trees?
“Bring out the prisoners first.”
“After you’re restrained.”
The wooden gate swings open. Inan surveys the female leader and takes a step back.
“I’m sorry.” Inan turns. “I’m afraid I can’t make that deal.”