“I told Glenquartz,” I say immediately. “About your…arm.”
Esther checks an imaginary watch. “That didn’t take long. Did you tell anyone else?”
I shake my head no, but I pause. “But I’ll probably tell Hat, too.”
“Would you like to tell the Royal Council as well?” she suggests impatiently.
“No. That about sums up the people who don’t want me dead.”
Esther lets out a controlled sigh and steps into the room, closing the door gently behind her. “I’ve given some thought as to where we go from here. I think we should keep our…alliance, for lack of a better term, off the Royal Council’s radar. We can still present a united front publicly, though, offering consolation to the victims of the fire.”
“If Fallow wanted the crowns reunited in our generation, then it makes my decision easy,” I say. “On the morning of the Assassins’ Festival, I’ll give the crown tattoo to you, Esther. I don’t care what the Royal Council wants. Why delay the inevitable?”
Esther shakes her head. “That wasn’t the reason I told you those things. I watched you use your abilities and charge into a burning building to rescue someone! Our father wanted you to be queen so that you could mend the divide between the classes. I think that when you gain your full abilities on the day of the festival, you might be able to do something no one else ever has—make the Nameless into citizens.”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “How can I defend my position here in the palace when there are citizens of Seriden who are so against my rule that they murdered at least three people?” I throw my hands into the air. “I can’t protect the Legals or the Nameless. Everything I’ve tried to do since I’ve gotten here has failed. Everything. I sent food out to the Nameless, and it got poisoned. I tried to find out what’s been happening to the disappearing Nameless, and I got nothing but rumors and dead bodies. I tried to have Hat released from prison, and the Royal Guard denied my request. Then, when I saved her life, it led to riots, fires, and deaths. Tell me, how would I make a good queen? Tell me how this city doesn’t burn itself alive the moment I try to sit on that throne.”
Esther thinks that her—our—father wanted me to be crowned queen. I think she’s wrong. I think that on the day of the Assassins’ Festival, I’m meant to give my crown to her. There’s no other way to reunite the two crowns, unless Fallow was hoping I’d die at the festival. Maybe Esther is supposed to kill me.
She studies the floorboards.
“Then I have four weeks to change your mind,” she says at length. “Eldritch’s etiquette lessons have helped you learn how to act the part, but that’s not what you need anymore. Instead, let Glenquartz train you how to fight so if you decide to duel for your crown, you’ll be ready. And let me teach you how to use your magic. There’s a reason you stayed at Med Ward with me. I can show you how to use your abilities to defend yourself at the festival. Let me help you. Give me a chance to change your mind.”
CHAPTER 16
Throughout the rest of the day, Belrosa is all too eager to flaunt her story of taking command and organizing the brigade that doused the flames. No one talks about the speech I was supposed to give. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to try again—not when smoke still hangs in the air and the scent of blood still lingers in Med Ward.
Every time I hear someone say “only three people died” in the fires, I want to rip off their necklaces and pocket watches and shout that there’s no only about it. The final numbers came in late last night from Rhana. Eight people died. Not three Legals and five Nameless. Eight people.
So when one of the Legal servants brings me an extra hot roll and a small cup of wine at dinner, I make a quiet toast to remember the five Nameless who won’t be mourned for their loss or celebrated for their heroism.
I meet Esther after breakfast at Med Ward. There are still a lot of injured people from the fires, and Rhana says they’re running low on anesthetics.
“What exactly is it that…I can do?” I ask.
“You can make people see hallucinations,” Esther explains. “That is only one aspect of your abilities. You can sense the auras and locations of your subjects from a distance, but the closer you are to someone, the more vulnerable you are. Yet it also lets you be more powerful. When you touch one of your subjects, you gain access to their mind. You can push emotional states and images on people. Hallucinations inside their heads. Or you can let them guide you, as we did when I showed you the memories of our…King Fallow.”
I cough awkwardly. Our father.
“Or,” she hurries to continue, “you can make me experience or feel something. You can observe my memories or thoughts. Or you can show me yours. It’s like…guiding an air current. You can’t necessarily tell it what direction to go, but you can control its path. I want you to try again. When you first met Belrosa, you saw flashes of memory or thoughts when you shook her hand in the meeting, right? That’s the push of the air current. You can guide that force in a different direction. Take this man’s hand. Lead him into a calming memory. He may resist. His memories and fears could overwhelm you. They may be strong, but you can be stronger.”
I steady my nerves, reach out, and place my hand on his.
In an instant, my body curls and coils, and sharp pain embeds itself in my leg. I know with absolute certainty that I’ll never walk again. I try to move forward and imagine something else, but fire springs to life all around me. Walls rise to enclose me. I pound my fists against the burning wall again and again, and splinters of wood dig into my hands. Smoke and ash fill my eyes, my throat, and my lungs. All I can hear is a high-pitched scream that trembles through my entire body, and my leg—my leg, I’ll never walk again.
I fall to my knees, and suddenly I’m once again in Med Ward, collapsed beside the bed, gasping lungfuls of fresh air. It tastes of antiseptic.
I breathe heavily. “That was horrible.” I can hear the heart-rending pain in my own voice. I can’t shake the loss that carves itself inside my chest. My body is fine. There’s no fire beneath my fists, no wounds to my legs.
Esther sits on the floor right beside me. “It’s okay to feel it.” She’s gripping the hems of her sleeves, and I can sense that she wants nothing more than to move closer to me, to put a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head. “I shouldn’t be feeling this.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “It’s his. You’re feeling what he felt. The loss and anger, the pain. Most importantly: the fear. That’s what we’re trying to save him from.”