Grig glanced at me and then nodded. A green mist swirled around him, before it tunneled into his mouth, brightening the whites of his eyes.
I closed mine. The life of the Devout wasn’t death, but it might as well have been. He couldn’t marry, he couldn’t own his title. I’d stolen my best friend’s future.
Edvarg turned his sharp smile on me.
* * *
Later, in my cell, I berated myself for not fighting back. Later, I thought of a hundred things I could have done differently to save Grigfen, a hundred things my father would have done against his traitorous brother. What someone worthy would have done.
But I’d raised my hands and dropped the fight.
The moment I needed it, all my bravado had disappeared.
And it had taken my hope with it.
I could not eat the silence in my cell. I could not drink the absence of light. I had nothing to gnaw on except my nightmares.
I woke from one, the memory of a sharp bone paring through my flesh, to the sound of a subtle movement in the dark. I crawled forward, ignoring the dust and filth that littered the ground. The bars of the cell were cold on my cheek. My dry mouth opened, pleading to the noise for light, for water … For kindness.
Uncle had stolen everything from me, except the clothes on my back, and the necklace he had not found.
A window somewhere opened slightly, sending a lost saint’s whisper of light.
It was a Historian, her legs folded, her carved mask tucked on her brow, like a low-hung hat. I knew this Historian well. She was the one who always came and watched me sleep. It was almost a comfort to have her there, because the expression on her face wasn’t predatory.
It was motherly.
Faded black paint spread across her nose and forehead in perfect streaks only marred by the line of tears dripping from eyes I almost recognized.
“Help me,” I pleaded. I crawled up onto my hands and knees and held the bar. “Help me,” I raged again, my voice shaking with anger and need, like an open wound.
Her tear-streaked eyes recorded my agony, but she didn’t move. I pulled at her cloak, trying to bring her closer, to force her to action, but she stayed planted.
Her cloak slipped off.
Underneath the cloak was a structure of rusting gears and green misty ghostlight, a skeleton of pipes, sparks, and machinations. Historians were nothing but walking Whirligigs, with a face of someone I almost remembered.
I dropped the cloak and found a corner on my own.
She recorded my deaths.
Again and again.
I died of thirst, a slow death that rattled my lungs and set a sharp pain in my abdomen.
I reawakened a foot away from where I’d lain, only to die from poisoned food. Each time I awoke, my body was battered, but my heart was still beating. I didn’t know how long I could live, clutching on to life with only one heart left to beat. Three times she watched me die. She stood sentinel as I shuddered awake, vomited on the cold stones, and screamed into the darkness to let me go. I didn’t want to live, only to stay dead.
She watched, but she never said a word.
* * *
Hours, or days, or years later, a door opened, and a lantern’s sharp light burned my retinas.
“Still alive?” Edvarg said nonchalantly, like he wasn’t surprised, or as if he simply didn’t care.
The Historian was gone.
“How many days?” I croaked. My throat was rough as used sandpaper—dry and full of muck.
Edvarg’s cape flicked in the breeze. He cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps if we remove your head entirely.”
“How. Many.” I stopped to fill my lungs.
“Eleven.” Edvarg scratched his beard. “Perhaps if there were enough witnesses…”
I ignored my uncle’s casual inquiry in how to kill me and clenched my eyes closed. My parents were eleven days gone. I’d lost eleven days of my quest. My palm brushed the bauble around my neck. I died from a lack of drink, yet I had crystal-clear water strung around my neck that I would never consider drinking.
Not until I knew I’d be strong enough to do this.
3
DAGNEY
I was in the market when the Executioner gongs rang out. Loud. Mechanical. I clutched the book against my chest and glanced up at the moons above me.
There was time. There was still time.
The bookseller pulled his embroidered books from their stands and packed them in a large trunk. I stepped quickly to his table.
“How much will you give me for this?” I asked. I showed him the bindings, but did not let go. You never let a trader hold your wares. Father taught me that.
“Lady Tomlinson.” He eyed the title on the spine, and then shook his head. “I don’t deal with traitors.”
And I didn’t deal well with people calling me names. I grabbed a handful of his lace cravat and pulled him until our noses were almost touching. “Jecky Varnes, I’ve bought enough books from you to furnish your entire house, so you will deal with me. How much?”
His eyes bulged at my violence. “One silver.”
I let go. “I bought it for five not twelve days ago.”
“Prices go up, prices go down.” He fiddled with his collar and went back to stacking.
I folded my arms. “You are cheating me? I’m your best customer.”
“You were a council member’s daughter,” he muttered. “I could call the guards on you. I’m sure King Edvarg would love payment for your father’s betrayal.”
I lowered my hands. “My father left me too.” My throat tightened, but I refused to let it weaken me. “He loved me more than anything in this world, and he and my brother left me with nothing. Please. I have a household to feed.”
He met my gaze, a spark of light back in his eyes. “Five silvers.”
“Thank you.” I handed him the book and it slipped into his trunk before I could count my silvers. “I’m looking for information about my brother.”
“Be glad you got the silvers.” He slid his last three books off the shelf and collapsed the thing in one winding twist of a gear. I’d always admired his mechanical bookshelf. “The King’s Executioner’s been summoned. Market’s closing.”
I stared up at the twin moons. It was getting late indeed if I could see their faces.
“I heard the gongs.” I slid my coins into the pockets of my market dress. “I’m sorry about your cravat. It’s been a difficult few days.”
He slammed his trunk closed and locked it. Jecky Varnes used to be friendly, almost a friend. I shared sweet rolls with him, and he always saved me the best books.
But now I was just grateful he didn’t spit on me.
The market emptied. No one here would trade with me, not even for information. I needed to know where my brother was. I had to find him.
But there was no one here, except one woman, huddled in the shadows, counting coins with trembling fingers.
I didn’t know this trader. She sat with her legs folded on a woven rug. Small carved stones lined her table. I crept closer and she looked up. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her pale hair reddened with dye, her face creased with wrinkles. She wore a dress made of scarves and feathers, with tiny shells sewn as embroidery, and nestled in her skirts was a small black-and-white dog.