Page 8 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“My prince,” Joran says again. He says something else, but I’m already succumbing to sleep.
THREE
HARRICK
“I don’t think you’re supposed to leave,” Tora says. She watches me from the infirmary doorway with crossed arms.
This place is designed like a cave, with her at the mouth of it and everything else subdued in blackness. It’s supposed to be calming, according to the healers. Tiled floor of the finest black spinel, heavy drapes to block the sun, and paint darker than shadows themselves.
“I’m healed,” I say. It’s mostly true. I spent all of yesterday resting, but I don’t have time to lounge around for three days like the healers expect. There’s too much to do, especially with the upcoming celebration. In nine days, the Flood Season begins, and the Royal Committee will announce our betrothals.
“Does Mother know?” Tora asks. She pushes from the wall, adjusting her crown. Hers represents Haver Lake in the Wilds. Thousands of tiny water droplets form a crown, complete with miniature jumping fish. The metal snags her unruly braid, and she curses, fixing it in place. Like the queen, she hasn’t cut her hair in cycles, and it hangs far past her waist.
She looks like a younger version of our mother, and the antithesis of me and Malek. Where we are pale with dark hair and darker eyes, Tora is all golden: bronzed skin and fair hairwith the lightest shade of violet irises. She is Mother’s only true-born, nearly two cycles older than Malek and I.
When the queen and king failed to provide a worthy heir, the Architect had no choice but to intervene. For the first time in fifty cycles, he fathered children: twin boys with magic stronger than any other descendant in time. Immediately after our birth, the Architect gave us to the king and queen to raise.
People whisper of our true mother, but no one knows who she is or what became of her. Some say she killed herself, either from the horror of seeing our power or from the depression of having us stolen. Others say the Architect had her killed or imprisoned following our birth. One way or another, I never knew her.
I’ve only ever had Mother. The king died when I was too young to remember, and the Architect has always been clear: Malek and I are his descendants, but we are certainly nothis.
“Harrick?” Tora presses. “Does Mother know you’re leaving?”
“I’ve no idea,” I say. I shrug into my suit coat and lace up my shoes. “But it’s her fault I’m here, Tor. I don’t much care what she knows.”
I pluck my gloves from the unmade bed and slip them over my hands. My palms still radiate heat, tinted the lightest shade of red, but they’re better now. That said, I don’t need people whispering more than they already will be.
“Let’s go,” I say as I pass her. “This place feels like a tomb.”
Tora is quick to keep up with me. We walk without speaking, and I study the red-painted walls as we pass. The 195th floor is reserved primarily for medical purposes, so the decor reflects that. Portraits of visionary healers are painted directly on the walls and more than one sculpture of a medical device peaks between the window drapes.
“Are you truly feeling better?”
“Truly,” I affirm.
I nod toward the center stairwell, and Tora beams at me in response. It makes her look cycles younger. It’s been too long since we’ve been to the courtyard anyway, and I can spare another hour before returning to my responsibilities.
Hidden behind a magicked door, the stairs are only accessible to royalty. Tora enters her code and takes the steps two at a time. I go slower, pretending it’s because I’m in no rush, rather than out of breath. Using as much magic as I did, I won’t feel normal for a while. Stripping magic in and out of the body like that is exhausting, and my bones won’t soon let me forget it.
At the two-hundredth floor, Tora holds the door open for me, and I lead us onto the rooftop courtyard. A lazy sunset highlights us in shades of orange and pink as we round the center pool. The soft breeze ripples the water, distorting its reflection of blue sky and feathery clouds.
We cross over rough black stones, weaving between folded chairs and stored decorations. In nine days, this will all be transformed into an extravagant celebration. Exotic meats and delectable fruits, all enchanted to look and taste better than they truly are. Partygoers will crowd this large square, doing too much of everything: drinking, dancing, gossipping.
For now, the space is empty. Green, yellow, and blue trees, all varying in shape and size, line two sides of the yard. A few leaves drift over the Tower’s ledge. Tora stares as they plunge hundreds of feet to the ground below, but I shift my attention to the farside of the courtyard. The event stage, half-hidden behind bright foliage, will one day serve as my altar.
We stop once we reach the far corner, where only an iron-wrought fence separates us from the nauseating drop. It’s a long way down. I sit at the base of the metal rungs, facing the oval pool, and close my eyes. Tora slides into the spot beside me, and I let out a hard breath.
“I snooped,” Tora says after several minutes.
I crack an eye to look at her. She’s lounged against the railing too, head tilted toward the sky. Though she’s not crying, I get the sense she will be soon.
“On?”
“Our betrothals,” she says, voice cracking. “I went through Sorace’s desk after he’d left for the day.”
My stomach tightens, and I can’t think of what to say. Traditionally, princes and princesses are only told of their betrothals on the day they propose. We are to be informed on the morning of the season change and set to propose at the night’s celebration. Dozens of elites will attend, all wearing green in a vomit-colored sea of desperation. The rest of the crowd will be no better. They’ll fight to join our mangled family tree, if not as our spouse then as our friend, our associate, ouranything.
Without my asking, Tora continues, “You were right, you know. They’ve picked Viana Llroy for you. Pretty girl with an ugly personality and an even uglier temper. I suppose they’re hoping for beautiful, vicious babies.”
