Only death is a reliable sanctuary.
That is why she froze, for in those dead eyes of the shadow man, she was reminded of all of this. Reminded of what she’s become. Reminded of how the true Shadow Kingdom crown is gone, assumed to be dust on an abandoned castle’s cobbled floors. Reminded how unworthy of that crown she would be if it still existed. But she’ll never tell Patrix this. It is her burden to bear, and Bastian’s attempts to convince her otherwise will be just that: Attempts.
“Rage and wrath are appropriate,” Bastian grumbles.
“Indeed.” Patrix squints at her. “She’s turning a precarious shade of red.”
Nefari rolls her neck and toys with the ring her mother gave her. It’s what she always does when she’s afraid, a fact both Bastian and Patrix are privy to.
“Perhaps the prophecy will come true then,” Patrix chimes, slapping Bastian on the shoulder. “If that temper continues to go unchecked, you may have what you desire at last! A Fate-blessed princess risen indeed.”
Bastian curls his lip at Patrix’s hand, and Patrix slowly drops it back to his side, cringing.
“You’ll see to it, won’t you,” she says angrily to Bastian. “But not all of us like to give hope to others only to later break those promises made.” Nefari looks at Bastian’s palm in emphasis. “Some of us have more pride than that.”
Patrix’s grin fades, and he, too, peers at Bastian’s hand. Bastian curls his fingers into it, obscuring the evidence there.
Across his palm is a scar as black as night. The scar would have faded to pale pink had he not broken the blood vow to her mother. Nefari remembers that day just as well as all the other horrific events on her eighth birthday.
Bastian’s jaw flexes as he peers down at Nefari. She’s never let him forget about his broken blood vow, and he’s never been able to make her see that his choices were to ensure the survival of her people so someday, “she can be the sword who cleaves the darkness.”
That’ll be difficult to do if she continues to refuse her birthright. She has every intention of continuing to do just that.
“I’m told you had used magic to break your binds,” Bastian murmurs, mindful of the villagers watching them. “You disobeyed me.”
“And I’d do it again,” Nefari spits. “He would have killed that woman for no other reason than her display of terror to keep the others in line. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Tell me, Patrix, how many villagers died today?”
“None,” he says sheepishly.
“Exactly. I took my chances, and look,” Nefari points to the sky, “No wraiths. We’re fine.”
“No, we’re lucky,” Bastian growls. He places his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword and grips it with significant strength. The large sword is as insignificantly detailed as all the other centaurs’ weapons, but there is one detail that is different. Etched into the metal before the sword meets the pommel is the crown of the centaur’s leaders, a crown Bastian never wears.
Bastian likes to touch his sword when he wants his word taken as law. Nefari braces herself for his decree. “You should not use magic except in the safety of Sibyl’s home, Nefari. And since you keep disobeying my order, I will be confining you within the mountains until I can trust you to follow the rules laid out for your own safety.”
Nefari glares, and Patrix whistles uncomfortably. She stares long enough for Bastian to leave, and once he does, she turns back to Patrix. “Did our horses run off?”
He shakes his head, his long and stiff brown hair shifting to frame his face. “They’re still in the village stables.”
“Good.” She begins to stride in the horses’ direction and Patrix follows. “Tell me you have another assignment. I’m not ready to go home and endure more of Bastian’s lectures or lessons.”
Patrix rubs the back of his neck while jumping out of the way of an unruly toddler dashing from his mother. “I do, but it’s one I’m taking myself.”
“Oh, come on,” Nefari whines. Her shoulders slump, and she slows her pace.
He sighs and pinches his lips to the side as he considers his friend. “He has a point, Fari. You’ve been fortunate so far, but that will end. Many could have died today. Was the one woman’s life worth everyone else’s?”
“Yes,” Nefari growls without pause. She feels her answer down deep in her soul because Amoon would have been worth it. Vale would have been worth it. She’d be damned if she repeated Bastian’s mistakes. “Who are we to decide the worth of a single life?”
Sighing, Patrix looks skyward. “All right.”
Assured, Nefari diverts the subject while ducking into the path between the bakery and the butcher shops. “Where’s your assignment?”
He pockets his hairy hands. “Vivian.”
“The city of wealth and slave trade,” Nefari says with distaste. “Whatever will you be doing there?” It’s said sarcastically because everyone knows Patrix likes the taste of a higher life from time to time.
Vivian is the capital of Urbana, and its higher-ranking people are responsible for the slave trade of Caw’s Cove. Nefari has never been able to stomach their lifestyle. They throw endless parties, indulge in narcotics, and toss their coin at frivolous things, all for the sake of status. That wealth could go somewhere else like improving the slums of their poorest neighborhoods. But they won’t. If the wealthy are short on slaves, they snatch the poorest people from their homes, and the slums are the first place they go.
When Nefari was a child and her kingdom still prospered, they had prided themselves on trading the most luxurious wool and jewels. In her teens, Nefari had learned her father was also trading in Diabolus Beetles, glowing bugs that had replaced fire in the Shadow Kingdom’s lanterns. The bugs are poisonous but, if diluted enough, a strong narcotic.
Nefari had heard the beetles became overpopulated in the Shadled Forest – a dry forest within Urbana’s borders that was once her playground, full of deep shadows and plump purple leaves. She shouldn’t be surprised that the royals of Urbana took over the trade. Before, Urbanians had left the Shadled alone for fear of the Shadow Queen’s – her mother’s - magic. Now that there’s no one to protect it, they had greedily taken over the trade.
Patrix grins as they reach the paddock next to the village stables. “I’m not allowed to discuss it.”
The paddock is a ramshackle square with rotted logs keeping the horses within. Packed snow is peppered with horse feces, the horses crowded at the far end to generate warmth against the chill.
“Will you at least be home for Shadow Mourn Eve?” Shadow Mourn Eve is the event the centaurs had thrown a few days after the Shadow Kingdom fell to honor their friends who had fallen. The centaurs of the mountains and the shadow people of the Shadled had been friends for eons. It wasn’t just Nefari and the other shadow children who had lost people that day.
His grin turns sad and sympathetic. “I will try, but I make no promises.”
Pausing with her hand on the paddock gate latch, she squints sidelong at him. “Secrets never stay secrets for long. I’ll find out where you’re going and why, eventually.”