Esther’s lids drop to half-mast, and she glares at me.
“No, you’re right. You’re right. Bad idea. Definitely not worth it.” I set the weaver’s basket onto its plate.
Esther points at the dessert. “I should speak with the Royal Council immediately. They need to know.”
“Know what?” I scoff. “That someone isn’t patient enough to wait until the Assassins’ Festival? Remember, it’s not illegal for anyone to kill me.”
“They can’t just do that, though,” she says. “They can’t just kill you. It would upset the balance of everything in our city, and magic is too fragile after what we’ve done to it.”
I cock my head to the side. “What you do mean, ‘after what we’ve done to it’?” I know I’ve caught her off guard, but she adjusts her features to a professional calm.
“The tattoos were used to bind magic to the fourteen sovereigns all those years ago….Magic was free once, and now it’s controlled. The tenets we’ve put in place to protect and control it are delicate. If you are killed before the festival, we don’t know what will happen to magic.” Esther rises from her chair, but she rests her hands on the edge of the table and leans forward. “When I said that tattoo is power—power that you aren’t prepared for—you said that being able to have power is a privilege. You say it’s dangerous for you. Power always, always goes hand in hand with danger. Even if power isn’t a privilege given to you, Coin, it’s still something you can possess.” Esther pushes off the table and strides to the door. “I’m going to let the Royal Council know there has been an attempt on your life. I presume you can have this disposed of properly, Eldritch.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one giving orders?” I say.
She squints at me. “Would you like to?”
I purse my lips, knowing it would be foolish for me to repeat what she’s said.
“It won’t dissolve,” I tell Eldritch as Esther heads for the door, and I can tell she’s listening. “The poison. It doesn’t dissolve. Not in water. Tell the kitchen to use oil.”
For a moment, Eldritch’s aura flickers with indecision, but he agrees.
Esther departs, but I’m quick on her heels.
“Something has been nagging at me,” I say as I chase her down the corridor.
Esther’s aura twists as she bites back a retort.
“The list of challengers posted outside the dining hall,” I say. “Your name wasn’t on it. The general had her name written there in a heartbeat, but not you. Why?”
Esther quickens her pace but then stops short. I move around to face her.
“I am not careless with my words or my actions,” Esther says. “When I write my name on that paper, that is when you will know with absolute certainty that you will never be queen.” With that, she picks up her quick pace, and this time, I don’t follow.
I check on Eldritch to make sure the poison is disposed of safely, and then I pace the corridors. It’s not every day that someone tries to kill me, but I wager it will be commonplace soon enough.
What Esther said during the lesson sits with me as I move through the palace. I don’t know how to dream big. I don’t know how to help everyone. I can barely keep myself afloat.
I take a moment to assess myself. I’ve been at the palace for ten days. My abilities, according to the Royal Council, will continue to grow stronger until six weeks have passed. Am I stronger? After sensing the auras of strangers and avoiding skin contact since I arrived here, I’m not sure.
I wonder if I’m strong enough to break Hat out of prison myself. I can sense auras, see memories, and cause hallucinations. But I have barely practiced the latter since settling into the routine of meals and etiquette lessons.
As I take a sharp turn and head down a short corridor, I feel a prickle on my neck. For a moment I can’t tell if it’s my usual paranoia or if it’s someone’s aura. Out of instinct or intuition, I glance behind me. There’s a flash of bright orange cloth, and a Royal ducks into a room behind me.
I try to reach out to sense the person’s aura, but I can’t. I backtrack and enter the room.
When I see the orange cloth, I push the Royal up against the wall, arm against his throat, saying quietly, “You think I can’t spot when someone’s following me?”
The slick black hair tickles my arm on his throat. I would know the cold green eyes anywhere.
You have got to be kidding me.
It’s Marcher.
CHAPTER 9
“What the hell are you doing here, Marcher?” I demand.
“Tut, tut,” Marcher says, waggling a finger as I press my arm against his throat. “Language, Highness. We’re of a better class here.”
Not only is he wearing Royal clothes, but they fit him perfectly. The orange dress shirt is tucked into a pair of dark blue trousers. Either he happened to steal a set of perfectly tailored clothes, or he has posed as a Royal before. His hair is combed neatly, most of it tied back, revealing a couple of graying streaks. No dirt smudges, no fish oil, no lingering spices from the markets.
“What is this?” I press him harder against the wall. Is Marcher really a Royal? No. I can’t sense his aura, so that must mean he’s Nameless.
“Let me guess. You demand to know what I want or else blah blah some kind of threat,” Marcher says. “First, I want your gracious gift of freedom.” He grips my right arm like a prison bar. He glances down at the crown tattoo. I doubt he knows that the tattoo is still sensitive to the touch, a built-in vulnerability displayed on my arm, but I don’t want to take the chance.
He carefully slides along the wall, and I let him.
Of all the things I have to worry about in the palace—execution, Royal injustice, being poisoned, losing Hat—this is the one thing I hoped to leave behind.
I back up to a safe distance. “I don’t want to make a deal with you, if that’s what you’re after.”
He grins. “The only thing I want from you is for you to honor the deals you do make. For instance: I could have led the Royal Guard to you on the night that you were discovered as queen.” In response to my skepticism, he adds, “You were at Devil’s. You spent the whole night there. In exchange for not selling you out, all I ask is that you let me walk out of here today. Unless you were planning on killing me. What do you say?”
He may be dressed up in Royal garb, but he’s still the same bastard.
“So go,” I say, answering his question without saying yes. “Leave.” He also kept Hat and risked her life, nearly getting her killed. But I can barely stand to be in the same room with him anymore.