“And you’re putting me down as a Potionmaker, right?” I ask. We decided it would be safest if I assumed a false identity to get onto the boat, to avoid anyone recognizing a Whisperer absolutely shouldn’t be there. It seemed only natural to use my late mother’s name, as well as her (and Hen’s mother’s) power. That way I know some basics about the magic if anyone asks, not to mention potionmaking would be entirely impractical to demonstrate on board, unlike the elemental magics that can be conjured from the air.
“Yes,” Hen confirms.
“And you’re sure they’re not going to make me prove it?”
She waves me off. “Let me worry about the details. You worry about the fantastic party awaiting us. Jeweled gardens, live peacocks, a dance floor the size of a town . . .”
“Hen, if I end up as the human sacrifice because you were thinking about dance floors instead of contest regulations—”
Hen stops, leaning solemnly against the wall. “This is not my first time, Zahru.” Meaning not her first time breaking the law, and I force myself to smile. It may appear I’m taking this all in stride, but I’m also the girl who had a moral crisis once after a merchant gave me too much change, and I’m ignoring that this lie will probably haunt me forever.
“My associate looked into it,” she continues. “The officials have so much else to deal with that even if we’re caught, we’ll just be removed from the palace grounds. And you know the sacrifice is actually a holy honor, right?”
“Right,” I say, fidgeting as Hen starts down the stairs again. But I’ll admit some of my excitement is dampened by the reminder of what tonight actually is. Atera has been so abuzz since His Majesty, the Mestrah, announced the Crossing, it’s easy to forget that after the parties and celebration, real people will risk their lives for the sake of Orkena’s future. Today, the royal boats will bring much of the nation’s upper class to the palace—one per household—including a select group of Master magicians who will actually participate in the contest. While these contenders split off to compete for a spot on a prince or princess’s team, the others like Hen (and hopefully, me) will get the run of the palace, including a viewing area where we can watch the selection process.
Then tomorrow, their teams chosen, the royal heirs will start on a weeklong race across the desert, where they’ll battle the elements and each other and gods know what else to reach the sacred Glass Caves. Where the winner, destined to be our new Mestrah, will have to secure their victory by taking a human life.
The gods haven’t called for a Crossing in centuries. I know I must trust the Mestrah, and that I should feel nothing but pride for the contest’s reinstatement. But I also can’t forget that the very reason it was discontinued was because a prior Mestrah deemed the race too brutal. I wonder what changed the gods’ minds.
“Going out?” calls Hen’s mother as we reach the bottom of the stairs. As is typical for the mornings, Hen’s mora sits on a cheery yellow carpet in the main room, eyes winged in lines of kohl, plump legs crossed as she readies her wares for the market. Potion ingredients spread around her like a rainbow: yellow vials of palm oil, blue scorpion claws and orange beetle wings, pink lotus petals and green desert sage. Focus dots circle her beige wrists, drops of liquid gold that steady her hands and center the magic she’ll use in the potions.
“Oh, just heading out to lie to a priest and crash the palace banquet,” I say, trying to sound clever. I want to embrace this daring new lifestyle, and Hen’s mother seems like the best place to start because she won’t take me seriously.
“Oh, good,” she says—taking me completely seriously. “I’ve been scheming ever since that sour messenger told me only one of us could go.”
“She told him she had two daughters,” Hen says, glancing at me.
Her mother scowls. “And you know what he said? ‘Send the prettiest one. You’re too old.’ The cod. I hope he doesn’t find himself in need of my services anytime soon.”
She smiles as she pours green liquid into a rounded vial, coating the dried tarantula at the bottom. I have to admit she’s the one person in the world who scares me more than Hen, which is why I’m very glad that when my mother passed, and Hen’s father decided he felt “too tied down” and left the country without them, the broken edges of our families sewed into one. I even call her Mora to honor what she means to me. I’m fairly certain this woman would poison someone for me.
“Be safe, my hearts,” Mora says, pinching gold flake atop the now-bubbling potion. “And let me know if you need my help.”
“We will,” we promise, kissing her cheeks.
We duck around the sapphire curtain shading the doorway and into the morning sun—and into the backs of a massive crowd.
“Sorry,” Hen says, slipping around two younger boys. I follow her between the richly dyed wrap dresses and gem-laden hair of Architects and Dreamwalkers, through a handful of sandy kilts and the dirt-streaked working slips of Gardeners and Weavers—lower magicians like me. It seems the entire town is converging on the shore for a glimpse of the priest and his magical boat. My bare feet press against polished brick as Hen guides us to a side street.
Not that it’s much better. People cluster here, too, leaning over iron balconies to ask if the boat has arrived, placing bets on which Aterian contender will actually make a team. Our town has six of them, I think. The Mestrah declared that every upper-class Master aged sixteen to nineteen is eligible to contend, as they’re in the prime of their magic and thus the heirs’ strongest options. With just two moons of training left, Hen missed the cutoff by a hair.
Snippets of conversation flutter past me, and I hang hungrily on to their words.
“—thought the Mestrah was going to name Prince Kasta his heir,” muses a man with rich brown skin and rings glittering across his fingers. “Strange the gods would call for a Crossing after so long. Do you think there’s more to it?”
“—a human sacrifice! I thought we’d moved past that—”
“—really should clear these dirty peasants from the street,” complains a woman with porcelain skin and a gaudy gold headdress. “Why are they even here? None of this is for them.”
“Don’t worry,” Hen whispers when the woman curls her lip at me. “I have a lot of dirt on her. Want me to tell her husband about her boyfriend? Or her clients that she’s only been erasing half their wrinkles so they have to hire her again the next week?”
I gape at Hen. “How do you know these things?”
“It’s my business to know.”
“It’s your business to design clothes.”
A shrug. “Rich people like to talk. I like to listen.” She grins. “Hurry, we have to catch him before he gets to Numet’s temple. After that, the list will be much better guarded.”