Saara looked back at Nerendal, trying to appear as if she hadn’t noticed. She was always careful with her blood, so she doubted a mage could have gotten it. If one had, they would be able to look through Saara’s eyes without her knowing it. They could even control her outright.
She’d never heard of a puppet claiming to hear the voice of Nerendal. She wasn’t about to use that to exonerate herself, though. She couldn’t have her aunt knowing she was going mad, or she might be dismissed from her place.
“Go, now,” Aiyen said. “Your cousins are waiting for you to begin the evening meal.”
Saara nodded and hurried out of the throne room without meeting her aunt’s eyes. Each step on the tiled floor brought a wave of nausea, and as she moved farther and farther from the stone, the sickness grew stronger, but the voice didn’t speak again.
Saara said a silent prayer to Nerendal that he never would.
After dinner, Saara headed to the practice rooms, where she intended to stretch and find a sparring partner to work out some tension. If she only got her muscles moving, perhaps the voice would grow more faint. On the way down, Saara passed a priest of Nerendal, dressed in official gold and green robes. He walked beside a glass blower who was describing in detail a glass sculpture of Nerendal’s flame that might grace the palace entryway.
“There’s also the matter of commissioning the light charm for the inside of the statue,” the craftsman said. “For a charm of this size, Hirsetti prices are considerable.”
The craftsman noticed Saara coming and fell silent, and both he and the priest nodded to her—a show of deference, if not the deep bow they would have given to her aunt or cousin. “Light be with you,” Saara said to the priest, and he muttered the same blessing as she stepped into the practice room and closed the door behind her.
Her cousin Talia had beaten her here, and was standing in the center of the room, a long, curved practice sword in her hand. Her cousin was lanky and several inches taller than Saara. Her limbs swirled smoothly through the chatha—a ritual dance used to practice the motions of combat.
Saara chose a practice blade from the wall and joined Talia mid-move, drawing her arm back and then slicing downward in a great swoop. The pair of them swirled together, their loose cotton sleeves draping from their arms and then sailing over their heads like kites.
When they reached the end of the chatha, Talia smiled at Saara and lowered her blade, breathing heavily. “You’re not even winded. Good thing I started before you arrived, or you would have picked a faster tempo and I wouldn’t have been able to keep up.”
Saara shook her head, though what Talia said was true. She had always been faster than Talia, and more precise. “I can’t compare to your grace,” she said. “Or your strength.”
Talia shrugged. “Grace is no good against assassins,” she said. “I’ll have to keep practicing until I pick up your speed.”
Saara extended her arms, stretching out her warm muscles. Talia was right, and she had far more reason to worry about assassins than Saara did. Saara knew her aunt intended to place her as the captain of the palace guard when her training was complete—not a position generally targeted by assassins. Talia, on the other hand, would someday take her mother’s place as queen.
“My mother spoke to me before dinner,” Talia said carefully.
Saara sat down on the stone floor, extending her leg and wrapping her hands around the ball of her foot. “What did she say?”
Talia bent into a stretch of her own, but looked at Saara from the corner of her eye. “She told me to keep an eye on you.”
Saara held her stretch steady, refusing to allow Talia to see her react. She’d thought her aunt seemed suspicious, but she must be even more worried than Saara had thought if she was speaking of it to Talia.
“She said you were behaving strangely,” Talia continued. “Do you know what she meant?”
“No idea,” Saara said.
Talia gave Saara an appraising look—no doubt also thinking about the blood mage and the possibility that Saara would make an excellent puppet, close as she was to the throne. The mainland emperor, Lord General Diamis, made a show of killing blood mages, but Saara had yet to meet a politician who wasn’t willing to use every tool at his disposal to maintain power.
If Talia was anxious about it, she chose not to say. She turned her back, raised her sword, and executed a perfect downward slash.
Saara wished she could know for certain what her cousin was thinking. Aunt Aiyen had always been more transparent than Talia—she spoke abruptly and betrayed her emotions on her face. Saara had always thought of Aunt Aiyen as one of the bright dancing flames of Nerendal himself, while Talia was more like the wind that fed him—strong and constant, even while its next move was invisible.
“Well,” Talia said. “I’ll tell my mother I’ve discovered your chatha form has lost nothing.”
“Thank you,” Saara said. Though she didn’t imagine her aunt would find comfort in the combat prowess of a blood puppet.
Or a madwoman.
Saara awoke in the middle of the night when her bedroom door flew open. She sat up in bed to see her handmaid entering, light globe in hand.
“My lady,” she said. “Hurry. The guards are coming any minute. You can’t be here when they arrive.”
Saara squinted at her. She still had a dull stomachache from walking away from Nerendal that evening, though she had hoped sleep would heal the pain. “What?”
Her handmaid rushed into the room, letting the door close behind her. “I heard the guards talking,” she said. “They say you’re a blood puppet. Your aunt has sent them to kill you. My lady, get up. You have to go.”
Saara jumped out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. Her handmaid was already throwing things into a bag—a change of clothes, a pair of shoes. Saara had little in her room that one would use to survive on the river, or up on the bluff where the wind blew down from the mountain and few plants grew.
Gods, she should have told Queen Aiyen the truth—that she was going mad. Surely then her aunt would have sent a physician. Even if she suspected her of being under blood magic control, Aiyen might have confined Saara to her room rather than kill her.
But there was a storm whirling toward shore, one that had already overcome three of the mainland nations. Her aunt would take no chances. Tirostaar was too precious to be risked on any one life.
Saara threw aside the dressing gown, reaching instead for her loose pants and tunic. She drew her best dagger from its place in her bedside drawer, fixed it to her belt, and took the bag from her handmaid.
“You’re sure they’re coming,” she said.
“Yes, lady.”